


Second Chances

by LUZ_DE_ROC



Category: Acacias 38 (TV), Maitino - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Maitino, Maitino 2020, POV Alternating, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, art lessons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:55:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 44,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27006199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LUZ_DE_ROC/pseuds/LUZ_DE_ROC
Summary: What if Maite and Camino met in Madrid in 2020?
Relationships: Camino Pasamar/Maite Zaldúa
Comments: 123
Kudos: 126





	1. Maite

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I might be insane, but here goes nothing. They say if you want something done, do it yourself. I have no idea if we'll ever see Maite and Camino again, but I couldn't let them go quite yet. So I've moved them into a modern setting, and let's see what happens!
> 
> Many thanks to my friend "across the pond" for her valuable feedback and for entertaining my ridiculously detailed questions about Spanish mailboxes. This is the level of fic nerd-dom in which I live, my friends. 
> 
> Thanks for joining me, and I hope you enjoy the ride!!

I hear the bell out in the hall, and the immediate rustle of papers and backpacks begins in front of me. My students don’t waste a second in packing up their belongings and heading out to start their weekend.

“Don’t forget to read Chapter Six,” I call out to them before they escape. “There might be a quiz on it!”

I hear a general grumble roll through the room.

“Hey, no complaining! If you complain, I will send Professor Delgado in to teach the next chapter!”

That causes a general chuckle. I know I probably shouldn’t make fun of my colleagues, but Carlos Delgado is approximately one hundred and thirteen-years-old and is well-known at the Complutense University of Madrid as possibly one of the more boring teachers of all times, and it’s not uncommon to walk by his classroom and see several attendees asleep.

The tide of students begins to pour out and I collect my things off the desk. As the last of the students leave, I see my best friend, Sophie, making her way in like a salmon swimming upstream until she reaches me.

“Hey,” she says.

I glance up at her.

“Hey. I thought your class doesn’t end for another half an hour.”

Sophie waves her hand dismissively.

“Eh, I was tired of looking at them. And they were certainly tired of looking at me. So I took pity on all us and let them go early. What the hell, it’s Friday. Want to go grab a drink?”

I glance at my watch.

“Sure, but I can’t stay out forever. I have a new student starting tomorrow.”

I love my job as an art professor, but the salary isn’t the best, and sometimes I supplement it by taking on art students at my studio at home.

“A new one? On a Saturday morning? I hope you’re charging accordingly.”

“It was the only time she could do. And actually,” I say, picking up my books and headed for the door, “I’m doing this one for free.”

“Free?!” Sophie asks, trailing after me to my office. “What on earth for?”

I shrug as we walk.

“You remember my friend, Silvia?”

“Um, the forensics chick? The one who finds dead bodies fascinating?”

I nod.

“Yeah. Well, she’s got this friend who has a daughter, and apparently she’s taking some prerequisites at the university, and is looking into the art program…”

Sophie groans.

“Oh, no, not one of these….” she laments.

I shrug again.

“Silvia is good friends with this girl’s mom, and claims she’s talented and all she needs is a little help, but doesn’t have a lot in the way of money to get it.”

“Maite,” Sophie says, pushing open my office door for me. “You know this is classic, right? ‘I know someone who is super talented, but just needs a chance blah, blah blah…’ and she’s going to end up not knowing how to draw a straight line.”

I smile and put my things down on my desk.

“I know,” I assure her, “But Silvia plied me with wine and caught me in a weak moment. Besides, I owe her – she’s done me plenty of favors. And I told her if this girl ends up being terrible, that I would have to tell her gently to move on. So, we’ll see.”

Sophie lifts her hands in acknowledgment.

“You are a better person than I, Maite.”

I laugh.

“Let’s see if that’s true after tomorrow when I have to let this girl down easily.” I grab my jacket. “Now, where do you want to go for a drink and tell me all about your new boyfriend?”

“Mmm, Nicolás,” Sophie responds enthusiastically, and starts chatting away as we make our way out of the building.

\-----------------------------------------------------

The next morning comes far too early. As usual, Sophie kept me out later than I intended and we ended up having dinner as well, and then perhaps a couple more drinks followed by some dancing. But I can’t complain – we had a good time and it felt good to be out.

Still, I’d rather sleep for another hour than get up to meet some aspiring art student whose talent is probably average at best. But I told Silvia I would meet with her, so I force myself out of bed, into the shower, and then downstairs for a strong cup of coffee.

As I pour myself a second cup, I’m finally waking up, and I make my way upstairs to get dressed. Since it’s Saturday, and I plan to get some work done after this appointment, I throw on a pair of old jeans with some paint stains and one of my favorite t-shirts and I roll a hair tie onto my wrist in case my hair starts to annoy me.

I grab my cup of coffee and head outside into my backyard to my studio. I love my studio, and it’s what made me buy this house years ago – it’s a converted green house and it’s everything I’d hoped to have in a work space – bright, spacious, lots of light. And thanks to the addition of some insulation and a space heater, I can still work in the dead of winter. I open the door and crack a couple of the windows to let in some fresh air.

I set my coffee down and check my watch. I actually still have a few minutes, and I remember that I forgot to grab my mail when I came home last night. I walk back up the path that runs along the side of my house to the front and to the mailbox. Grabbing the few letters I find there, I turn, thumbing through the envelopes in the hopes that I’ve gotten something more interesting than junk mail and bills.

I start walking slowly, reading a pamphlet about an upcoming art conference, not paying particular attention to where I’m going as I make my way back. And so I am very surprised when I collide solidly with another body and suddenly feel the very distinct and unpleasant sensation of being doused with some sort of cold liquid.

I make a sharp noise of surprise and drop my mail as I look up to see a young woman with dark brown eyes and long chestnut hair pulled into a messy ponytail looking at me with a mortified expression and holding a now mostly-empty cup.

“Oh my God, I am _so_ sorry,” she says, reaching out with one hand. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention and I was looking at my phone, and oh God, I am really really sorry.”

To say I’m irritated is an understatement. Not only am I soaking wet, with iced coffee by the smell of it, but my mail is all over the sidewalk, my favorite t-shirt might never be the same, and now I’m going to be late for my new student. But I tamp it down because this girl looks genuinely distraught and on the verge of tears, and I have no desire to make it any worse.

“No te preocupes,” I reassure her as she looks at me helplessly. “It’s fine. No big deal.”

I can see my words do little to reduce the panic in her eyes and she immediately kneels down to start gathering my mail. I try to stop her.

“No, really, it’s okay. Don’t bother.”

But she’s already picking up the envelopes, and as she does, she glances at one of them.

“Oh my God, no,” I hear her whisper. “No, no, no, this is not happening to me. This is not possible.”

I furrow my eyebrows in confusion. In truth, nothing’s really happened to her. _I’m_ the one covered in her morning beverage and inconvenienced at this point.

“Listen,” I try again, “Really, don’t worry about it. Not a big deal. I live right here, I can just change.”

The young woman stands up slowly and looks at me as if she’s about to throw up. She nods.

“I know,” she says and she holds out my mail. “You’re Maite Zaldúa?”

I nod slowly, confused.

“Yes,” I confirm. The young woman looks almost ill at this point.

“I’m Camino Pasamar…your new student.”

I stare at her, not really putting her words together for a couple seconds, long enough for Miss Pasamar to apparently take my silence as incomprehension.

“Silvia Miranda’s friend? Bueno, Silvia’s friend’s daughter?”

I shake my head to clear it.

“Yes, I – of course. Camino, yes?”

The girl nods, still looking as if she’d rather the earth swallow her whole. I try to soften my expression as I hold out my hand to take the mail from her.

“It’s…” I laugh slightly as I look down at my soaked shirt. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“I can’t believe I did that,” she says, talking really fast. “I wasn’t sure where I was going, so I was checking the map on my phone, and I wasn’t looking, and –”

I hold out my hand to stop her.

“It’s okay. I’m just going to go inside and change. Why don’t you wait for me in my studio, and I’ll be with you in a few minutes. Just follow this path around the house and you’ll see it.”

Camino nods and somewhat gratefully turns and hurries through the gate and down the path. I myself go back into the house and up the stairs. Luckily, my shirt got the worst of it, the jeans are fine, and I change quickly and head out back. But before I do, I stop in the kitchen and pour another cup of coffee, and then add some cream as I remember the color of the liquid left in her cup.

I find Camino standing in the middle of the studio, glancing at the walls, looking somewhat lost. I walk in and move toward her, holding out the cup of coffee.

“It’s not iced, but I hope it’ll do. I figured you might still need the caffeine.”

Camino looks surprised as she takes the cup from me.

“Thank you. That’s so nice,” she says. “Again, I’m really sorry.”

I shake my head.

“Already forgotten. To be truthful, I wasn’t looking where I was going either. So let’s start fresh. It’s very nice to meet you, Camino. I’m Maite.”

I reach my hand out to her. She smiles and reaches out in return. Her hold is firm and her hand is small and warm in mine as our fingers close around each other.

“The pleasure is mine, Maite. Thank you so much for doing this. I really appreciate it.”

“Of course,” I reply, taking a deep breath. “Let’s begin.”


	2. Camino

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm going to try something a little different with this story, and alternate between Maite and Camino's points of view (because apparently I thought I needed an extra writing challenge). And so here is Camino's first chapter. :)
> 
> And thank you kindly for all the responses to the first chapter - makes me excited to keep writing!

The next Saturday morning, I show up at Maite’s studio with my iced coffee in a travel mug with a sturdy lid and my notebook tucked under my arm. I can see she’s at her drafting table, and feeling slightly nervous, I knock lightly on the door. She looks up and waves me in.

“Buenos días,” she says as I enter.

“Buenos días,” I reply, holding up my cup for her to see. “I came better prepared this week.”

Maite smiles at me.

“Very glad to hear it. And I see you brought your notebook too?”

I glance down at the somewhat battered notebook in my hands. Maite had asked me to bring a sample of my artwork this week, and I’m a bit embarrassed that this is what I have to show for myself. I’ve never really been able to afford great art supplies, and so I just tend to sketch on anything I can get my hands on, and the one I brought happens to be the most recent one I have.

I give her an apologetic look.

“It’s not much,” I admit, “It’s just kinda what I had lying around.”

But Maite seems unconcerned.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, “You should see some of the things I sketch on when an idea strikes – a napkin, a wrapper. One time I drew on one of my friend’s arms because it was all I had available.”

I laugh a little.

“Did your friend mind?”

“Well, not at the time, but he was less enthusiastic when I made him come back home with me so I could copy it onto actual paper.” She shrugs. “I told him that’s the price of being my friend sometimes.”

I laugh again, feeling instantly more at ease, and Maite nods toward my notebook.

“Puedo verlo?”

I take a breath and hand it over tentatively.

“Promise you won’t laugh?”

Maite raises her eyebrows a little.

“I would never do that,” she tells me sincerely. I have no reason to, but I believe her. I release my grip on the notebook as she takes it.

I don’t really know what to do with myself as she opens it, so I settle for stepping back to lean against a small armchair in the room and sipping my coffee.

I watch her as she flips to the first page, a sketch of my neighborhood. She pauses, her finger tracing a line of one of the buildings. And then she slowly looks through the rest – a few I’ve done of the park near my house, a portrait I did recently of my brother, a couple of drawings I’ve just started sketching.

She looks up at me, and I can’t quite read her expression.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I say quickly before she can speak. God, this was a bad idea. I should never have let my Mom talk with Silvia. And now this clearly talented woman is wondering why she’s wasted two perfectly good Saturday mornings with me. “Honestly, I know they’re rough. I don’t get a lot of time to draw between classes and helping out at my Mom’s bar and –”

“Camino,” Maite says with a small smile, “Please, take a breath. These are…quite good,” she continues, indicating the drawings in front of her. “You have a style, that much I can see.”

“I…thank you,” I say faintly. It isn’t what I was expecting to hear. I’ve loved drawing for years, but it’s mostly something I’ve done to pass the time or when it’s slow at the bar. But no matter what I do, I seem to keep coming back to it, and it makes me really happy.

“You’re green,” she continues, “But I can see your personal style in these.”

“Really? Because I usually just try to copy what I see other artists doing.”

Maite nods.

“That’s a great way to learn. But even so, I would already be able to recognize your paintings among others.”

I step closer, still thinking maybe she’s just being nice.

“You’re not just saying that because I’m Silvia’s friend?”

Maite looks at me, her bright brown eyes instantly drilling into mine, and I almost step back at the sharpness of her gaze.

“Camino, one thing you should know about me is that I don’t say things I don’t believe. So no, I’m not just saying that.”

My gaze drops away from hers before I screw up the courage to look at her again. I nod.

“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

“Good. Now. I don’t want to destroy this artistic personality you have. We’re going to try to simply give it some new tools and guide it a little. How does that sound to you?”

Honestly, I feel a little unsteady at the realization that Maite isn’t showing me the door right now, and that she, in fact, thinks I might actually have some talent. I’ve glimpsed a couple of what I assume are her paintings on the walls, and she’s good. Really good. And I feel instantly intimidated at the thought that she’s willing to work with me.

But she’s looking at me expectantly, and I find myself nodding.

“That sounds….great. I think. I…well, I’m not really sure. I feel…a little overwhelmed.”

Maite surprises me by laughing lightly, the bright sound seeming to bounce around the studio.

“I like that. You’re honest. We’re going to get along just fine. And don’t worry, there’s nothing to feel overwhelmed about. We’ll take it one step at a time, and if you have any questions, just ask, okay?”

I smile and nod, a little confused at how I seem to feel both nervous and completely at ease with Maite. But I’m sure it’s this new experience and the excitement at finally getting a chance to try what I’ve wanted for so long.

“Wonderful. Then let’s continue with what we started last week. Now that I know your style a little better, we can focus our efforts more precisely. Why don’t you get your painting from the back and set it up.”

Last week after I’d rather epically spilled coffee all over my new teacher, we’d talked a little, and then she’d set me up with a canvas and easel, and we’d started working on painting the human figure. She’d pulled out a print of the _Venus de Milo_ for reference, and we’d worked on some basics.

I walk to the back of the studio and find my covered canvas, and bring it to the front and set it on an easel. I then get my palette ready with the colors I want and drop the brushes I’m using into a can of water next to my easel. I’m about to begin when I remember to grab the painting robe Maite said I could use off the coat rack by the door. It’s white with a leafy print all over it, stained with paint, and soft, like material can only get when it’s been well-worn. It feels silly, but putting it on makes me feel more like I belong here, and less like I’m the shiny new object with the price tag still attached. If anyone walked in, maybe they’d be fooled into thinking I actually know what I’m doing.

Maite brings over the _Venus de Milo_ print and clips it to the top of the canvas.

I’ve already sketched the outline of the ancient Greek figure, and I’ve started working on the shading. I study the print for a few minutes while Maite moves around the studio, donning her own robe, a vibrant red with a paisley print, which appears to suit what little I’ve observed of her. The robe seems to know her, and settles around her like a second skin, the paint stains a testament, I imagine, to her years of hard work.

I catch myself staring, and return my gaze to my canvas before she thinks Silvia vouched for someone who can’t be bothered to concentrate when given an amazing opportunity. I pick up my palette and brush, and begin to paint.

Maite continues to move around, setting up her own canvas and easel, occasionally moving to my side to offer an observation or comment. Every time she approaches, I find myself holding my breath, as if she might discover that she’s wasting her time after all. But she never says anything unkind or harsh – her observations are thoughtful, and her suggestions tend to make me think and occasionally reassess. Eventually, I relax, enough to try to make conversation.

“Sylvia said that you’re a professor at the Complutense. Do you like teaching there?” I ask, dipping my brush into a bit of red before applying it to the canvas.

“Very much,” Maite replies. “In this day and age, it’s nice to discover that art still means something to people.”

I nod, adding a bit of color around Venus’ torso.

“And you still take on students privately? You don’t get tired of it?”

“Well, I don’t take on very many. One or two a semester. Usually it’s someone one of my colleagues sends my way for a little extra help.”

Maite steps behind me again and watches me for a minute.

“Easy, Camino, easy. Let your brush just flow over the canvas…”

I frown in concentration and try painting with a softer touch.

After a couple seconds, Maite says,

“Mejor, sí. Pero…¿puedo?” she asks, reaching forward. I nod, and her hand closes softly over mine as she steps a little closer and demonstrates what she means.

“Think of it as caressing the canvas with the brush, a ver?” she says as she guides my hand. “Aaaasí,” she approves as the brush stroke produces a softer line. She lets go and turns toward me with a chuckle. “Sometimes less is more. You don’t always have to use quite so much paint to get your point across.”

I smile a little sheepishly.

“I guess sometimes I just want to make sure the color doesn’t go unnoticed.”

Maite smiles back at me.

“And that you’ve achieved, most definitely. It is refreshing to see someone paint with so much passion.”

I feel myself blush inexplicably, and I don’t quite know what to say next, but I’m saved from figuring it out by a loud knock on the studio door.

“¡Buenos días!”

We both look toward the entrance, and I see quite possibly one of the most eccentric-looking women that I’ve encountered in my whole life. She’s probably in her 60s or so, wearing a rather vintage-looking dress and a hat with a feather sticking out of it. She’s carrying a basket of what appears to be vegetables, and her entire countenance instantly reminds me of a hurricane as she comes barreling into the studio.

“Maite! So glad I caught you!” she booms, almost as if she and Maite are already in the middle of a conversation.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maite stiffen slightly, but then she smiles widely.

“Rosina! How nice to see you!”

Rosina bustles in, making a beeline toward Maite before catching sight of me.

“Oh,” she says, “You’re new!”

Maite glances at me and then back to Rosina.

“This is Camino Pasamar, my new student. Camino, this is my neighbor, Rosina Rubio.”

Rosina nods at me.

“Encantada.”

I nod back and open my mouth to reply, but she’s already turned her attention back to Maite. I try to return to what I was doing, but the new visitor makes it nearly impossible, her voice reverberating in the room.

“I was just picking the last of the vegetables from my garden, and thought you might like some! I’ve got some late tomatoes and cucumbers.”

“That is very kind, Rosina, thank you. I’d be happy to take some.”

“Excellent! Here you are!” she says, thrusting the basket at Maite. Luckily, Maite’s reflexes are quick, and she manages to catch the basket just as Rosina releases it. I see Maite breathe a sigh of relief at avoiding tomatoes rolling around her studio as she sets the basket down safely.

The older woman has already turned, looking around the room. Her gaze lands on a small statue in the far corner, the _David_ by the looks of it, and her eyes light up.

“Oh!” she exclaims, clapping her hands together, and walking toward it, “This wasn’t here last time!”

I see Maite throw an apologetic look my way, and I hide my smile before Maite follows Rosina.

“I just got it a little while ago,” she says, her voice clearly measured. Rosina tilts her head and eyes the statue.

“That Michelangelo knew what he was doing, didn’t he?” she says with a sigh, and it’s all I can do not to laugh. Is this woman really ogling the _David_?? But Rosina isn’t done yet. “Makes you wish you were alive during the Renaissance, doesn’t it?” she says conspiratorially, elbowing Maite slightly in the ribs. My eyes widen and I cough hard, so much that both women turn toward me. I wave them off.

“I’m fine, sorry.” 

But it looks like I might have provided just the interruption Maite needed.

“Well, Rosina, thank you for stopping by, and thank you for bringing the vegetables. I do appreciate it. But we’ve really got to get back to work here.”

“Ah, sí, sí, _por supuesto_! I know how important it is to get in the groove! I took many art classes, and I remember it well what it’s like to get lost in the work!”

Maite nods knowingly, as if this maybe isn’t the first time Rosina’s art classes have been mentioned.

“I’ll see you later then?”

Rosina nods and heads toward the door.

“So nice to meet you!” she throws over her shoulder at me and then she’s gone, a profound silence suddenly enveloping the studio.

Maite turns toward me and we stare at each other for a second before we both burst out laughing.

“What just happened?” I ask between fits of laughter.

“Well, you just met my neighbor, Rosina. She is…quite the character.”

“I mean…was she really drooling over that statue? I thought for a second she might ask you if she could have it!”

Maite chuckles.

“Me too. And still, after all the times she’s invented ways to come back here to the studio, she apparently thinks that _this_ is just a festive decoration,” she says, pointing at the Pride flag hanging over her drafting table.

I grin.

“She really doesn’t know?”

If I hadn’t known from Silvia that Maite was gay, it would have been fairly obvious walking into her studio. The flag isn’t giant, by any means, but it’s fairly prominent, and she’s got an equality sticker on the back of her laptop that’s sitting on the desk by the door.

Maite shrugs.

“I honestly think she just chooses not to. Or it truly doesn’t occur to her. She is a decent person, but she most definitely lives in her own little world,” Maite takes a deep breath and shakes her head, an amused smile still on her lips. “Now,” she says, focusing back on me, “Shall we continue?”

I nod enthusiastically and return my concentration to the canvas as Maite walks around to join me.


	3. Maite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Louvre is a treasure trove of art, but the Prado houses an equally impressive collection. It's only right that it gets its moment in the sun, yes? Where else would Camino and Maite go to spend a day nerding out about art?

I’m sitting on the couch in my studio, sipping my coffee, when I catch movement outside and see Camino walking toward the greenhouse. She waves and lets herself into the studio.

“Hola,” she says, her cheeks slightly flushed from the cool air outside.

“Buenos días,” I say, standing to greet her. “¿Cómo estás?”

“Bien,” she replies. “A little chilly,” she says with a laugh, closing the door. “I saw the sun, and misjudged the temperature outside.”

I smile.

“It’s hard to decide this time of year.”

“Sí,” she agrees, rubbing at her arms to warm up. “Well,” she says brightly. “I’m a little curious about what we’re doing today since I got your text last night.”

Last night as I was sitting by my fireplace with a cup of tea and working on some sketches, I found myself thinking of my new student, and how I wanted to shape her next lessons. She’d shown remarkable strides in the last couple weeks, surprising even me, and I was trying to figure out how to move forward without boring her. She was proving herself to have a natural feel for the canvas, and I had no desire to squelch that in any way, yet I wanted to find some way to impart some of the more mundane lessons that all artists have to learn. Building blocks are building blocks for a reason.

And then it had hit me. What better way to show her classic painting techniques than to expose her to the masters of the craft? So I had sent Camino a text last night – **Sorry this is so late, but come dressed for a field trip tomorrow.**

My message was met with – **??**

I smiled because I didn’t want to give away the surprise. For some reason, I was hoping to see the excitement on Camino’s face when I told her.

 **Nothing fancy** – I texted back – **Just not like you’re going to be painting all morning**.

I watch Camino look down at herself and then up at me with raised eyebrows.

“I hope this is okay? Your directions weren’t exactly clear.”

I glance at what she’s wearing – a simple white blouse, a long blue patterned maxi skirt, and a black pair of lace-up boots.

“Perfectly okay,” I say. “Great boots, by the way.”

“Hmmm? Oh, aren’t they?” Camino replies, lifting her skirt a little until I can see that the boots go about mid-calf, “I found them at this great little vintage shop I like to go to. The sales lady told me they came from an estate sale, and they’re pretty old. They’re super comfortable; the only problem is that they’re an absolute _pain_ to get off. Still, I had to have them.”

I smile at her enthusiasm, and I note that her eclectic fashion sense seems to complement what I’ve seen of her painting sensibility so far – solid, but a little off the beaten bath with a touch of throwback to an era gone by.

“Well, I think you made a great choice. And I didn’t want to give you too much information and spoil the surprise, but….when’s the last time you visited the Prado Museum?”

Camino’s eyes light up like I thought they might, and her smile is wide and genuine.

“Wow, not in a long time. I mean, we went in grade school a few times, but that’s it. I’m usually pretty busy, and my family isn’t exactly one to spend the afternoon at the museum, unfortunately. I’m a bit of a black sheep when it comes to things like that.”

I clap my hands together.

“Well, let’s change that! If you’re game, I thought we could tour the museum this morning and visit with some of the greatest artists who ever existed.”

Camino nods her head enthusiastically.

“That sounds amazing.”

“Bueno.” I reach for my jacket, and then remember Camino’s comment on the weather. I turn back toward her. “You’re probably going to need something a little warmer. Come on, I have something in the house that might work.”

Camino starts to protest.

“No, really, you don’t have to. I’ll be fine.”

“Camino, don’t be ridiculous. Come on.”

Camino follows me outside and along the path to the house. I open the door and lead her inside.

I notice she steps in a little hesitantly and stands in the entryway. She looks left and right.

“Your house is really cute,” she comments.

“Oh, thank you,” I reply, as I open the hall closet and dig around until I locate what I hope she finds suitable. I step back. “I bought the house because I could have my studio out back, but it turned out I liked the house quite a bit too. Here we are,” I say, holding out an old jean jacket of mine. “I hope this is okay?”

Camino reaches out and takes the offered garment.

“Of course, thank you.” She holds up the jacket. “Actually, this is a great jacket. Really vintage.”

My mouth quirks in amusement.

“Who are you calling vintage?” I ask.

Camino immediately blushes.

“No, no,” she stutters, “I don’t mean it that way, not at all.”

I laugh at her expression.

“Camino, it’s okay, I’m just teasing. I love that jacket too. I just don’t get to wear it very often.”

Camino’s mouth lifts in a half smile, and she slides her arms into the jacket. Once on, I can’t help but notice that the jacket seems like it was intended to be part of her outfit, and while it always has been just a hair too long on me, it sits right at her waist.

“Looks great,” I appraise, “¿Estás lista?”

She looks up at me and nods.

“Are you okay if we drive?” I ask. “Taking the metro will take forever.”

“Of course.”

“Bien.”

We walk outside, and I lead the way to my small car parked out front. I unlock it, and we both slide in.

I start the car and ease it out into the street.

“Do you have to be back at any particular time?” I ask.

“Normally on Saturdays, yes, but not today. My brother is doing inventory at the bar this morning and said he didn’t need me.”

“Okay, good, then we don’t have to rush through the museum,” I hang a quick left for a shortcut I know. “You’ve mentioned this bar a couple times – tell me about it. Your family owns it?”

Camino nods, and in my peripheral vision I see her relax into her seat.

“Mmm, yes. Well, my mother owns it. My brother is the manager; he’ll probably take it over one day.”

“Where is it?”

“Actually, it’s not far from the university. Maybe you’ve seen it? It’s called _Siglo Veintiuno._ It’s on Calle de Palencia, just off Calle de Bravo Murillo.”

“Hmm, no, but to tell you the truth, I don’t get out that way much.”

“That’s too bad. There are a lot of good restaurants and bars over there.”

I nod. “I’ll keep that in mind. And you work at the bar as well?”

“Yes,” she smiles and shrugs. “I don’t have much choice, you know? When it’s family, everyone helps out.”

“Running a bar is tough work.”

“Sí,” Camino agrees. “But my mother’s parents were restaurant owners, so she knew the business. So when my father died, we moved to Madrid, and she bought the bar.”

“I’m sorry about your father.”

I see Camino shake her head.

“Thank you, but I was really young when he passed away. I honestly don’t remember him very well. I think most of what I remember is what Emilio has told me.”

“¿Emilio es tu hermano?”

We’re at a red light and I glance over at her in time to see a wide smile cross her face.

“Sí. He’s four years older than me.”

I smile back.

“And you’re close?”

She nods happily.

“Sí. It was just the two of us, and my Mom worked long hours, so we spent a lot of time together.”

The affection she has for her brother is clear in her voice.

“That’s nice to hear.”

“We actually live together right now. Bueno, I live with him and his wife.”

I make a right-hand turn as we get close to the museum.

“Oh, really? I got the impression from Silvia you still lived with your mother.”

“I did until recently, but…it was probably best for my mother and me to have some separation, you know?”

I think of my own rocky relationship with my mother, and I nod ruefully.

“I do indeed.”

“Emilio and Cinta have an extra room, so they invited me to live there, at least for a while. It was a really good decision for all of us.”

“Glad to hear it.”

I turn into one of the parking lots near the museum, pay the fee, and park the car.

“Shall we?” I ask, turning toward Camino.

She nods and unbuckles her belt.

“Yes, I’m so excited.”

I find myself feeling carried along by her enthusiasm as we make our way into the building and to the front desk. I see Camino reach for her handbag, and I immediately hold out my hand.

“Absolutely not, Camino. I invited you – my treat.”

“No, please, it’s not necess – ”

I reach out and close my hand around her wrist. That stops her and she looks at my hand and then up at me. I smile.

“My treat,” I repeat.

She holds my gaze for a second and then nods.

“Gracias.”

I let go of her wrist and step toward the reception desk and pay our entrance fee. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Camino grab one of the museum maps and flip it open. I turn back to her as she studies it, her eyes bright as she looks it over.

“Where do you want to start?” I ask her. She looks up at me.

“I honestly don’t know. Everyone is here!”

I chuckle.

“Yes, they are. Come on. We’ll start with one of the true masters. His most famous works aren’t on this floor, but we’ll get a good sense of him.”

I lead her to the left and into the far wing where many of Goya’s early works hang. As we make our way slowly around the room, I try to offer her some context – Goya’s habit of breaking with the academic rules of art, how he became increasingly resistant to the dictates of others until he refused to submit to them, at last only listening to his own powerful genius. Camino studies each of the paintings carefully, but her head is always cocked in my direction, listening. And so I continue, offering a bit of information here and there.

From Goya, we walk back across the Ground Floor to stand in front of Hieronymus Bosch’s _Tryptic of The Garden of Earthly Delights_. I watch as Camino looks it over, inspecting the many details, and her mouth opens slightly, trying to take it all in. It’s a common reaction to the piece – there is much to absorb. Camino turns to me.

“It’s Heaven and Hell, yes?”

I nod. “You’re absolutely correct.”

She looks back at it and her eyes narrow.

“But it’s not right,” she says slowly.

I tilt my head at her.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, this middle part is supposed to be Paradise, right? But it doesn’t look like it. I mean, on the surface it does. It looks like the continuation of the Garden of Eden over here. But it seems like….he’s making a commentary about, I don’t know…the dangers of, well, earthly delights?”

She looks at me, and I can’t help but smile at her.

“Camino, I’m impressed. You are exactly right. He was primarily dealing with the sin of lust here, and over here to the right, with different Cardinal Sins. And you can even see some of the activities that were censured at the time that landed these unfortunate souls in Hell, like playing board games.”

At that, Camino snorts a little.

“Hieronymus might be surprised if he popped into the world today.”

I laugh.

“Very true.”

We study the details of the _Tryptic_ for a while longer, and then we make our way up to the First Floor.

At the top of the stairs, I pause for a second, deciding on where I want to start as this floor holds some of the world’s best artistic treasures. In the end, I turn to my companion.

“Right or left?”

Camino’s head swivels back and forth.

“Mmmm,” she ponders, her lips pressed together, “Right.”

I nod.

“Right it is.”

We make our way to the far end where Titian’s works are located. We study _The Agony in the Garden_ for its telescopic technique, popular at the time, and the strong narrative of _Christ on the Way to Calvary_.

Next we visit Zurbarán’s _Still Life with Vessels_ , an unquestionably masterful example of a still life study.

“I know they’re not everyone’s favorites, but we’ll work on some still lifes too,” I tell Camino, as we stand in front of it.

“I don’t mind. I want to learn everything,” she replies, studying the four pots.

I lean in a little closer to her.

“Also, if Rosina ever comes into the studio again when you’re there, I will give you some advice – never mention Zurbarán. Apparently a teacher once told her that her brushstroke resembled his, and trust me, she will tell you _all_ about it.”

Camino giggles softly.

“Thank you, I will be sure to remember that.”

We next make the short walk to visit with El Greco and one of his earlier, but most celebrated, works, _The Nobleman with his Hand on his Chest_ , a fine example of portraiture. I watch as her eyes are naturally drawn to where El Greco directs them, the man’s hands and the hilt of his sword.

“Who was he?” she asks.

“No one really knows. Some think it may be a self-portrait. Other theories say it’s Cervantes or a military commander who was one of El Greco’s contemporaries. Do you think it matters who it is?”

Camino shakes her head slowly.

“Maybe not. But I kinda feel like I want to see more of his figure, you know? I don’t know,” she shakes her head and looks at me. “Maybe that’s silly.”

I hold her gaze, slightly taken aback at her comment as her dark eyes look at me with uncertainty.

“Actually, no,” I reply after a moment, “It’s not silly at all. One of the things El Greco does here is create a tension between the seen and unseen, especially with the arm that continues out of the frame of the painting. That’s an excellent observation.”

Camino ducks her head slightly with a shy half smile.

“I didn’t even really notice why, it’s just how it made me feel.”

I smile.

“Art _should_ make you feel something, Camino. That’s the first step. Then you learn the ‘how’ and the ‘why.’ And that’s why we’re here.”

She meets my eyes again and nods.

“Ya estoy aprendiendo mucho.”

“Bien, me alegro. Continuemos.”

We take some time to admire El Greco’s _The Adoration of the Shepherds_ , likely his last work before his death, and then stroll through a few more rooms.

As we finish walking through another gallery, Camino looks at me.

“Where to next?”

“Ah,” I say, taking her arm briefly and pointing her toward the far doorway, “Now it’s time for one of my very favorites. Velázquez.”

Very soon, we find ourselves in the large room where some of the artist’s most famous works are on display. I describe to Camino some of the details of _Prince Baltasar Carlos on Horseback_ that make it a technical masterpiece, and we discuss the complex range of colors and the feeling of immediacy in _The Spinners_. But it is in front of the large canvas of _Las Meninas_ that we stand the longest.

“I know this is maybe going to sound strange,” Camino says softly, “But it seems nearly…perfect.”

Once again, Camino’s astute remark surprises me, and a small thrill runs through me as her sharp observational skills become more and more apparent.

“Actually, that doesn’t sound very strange at all. This painting is often praised as one of the best examples of the use of light and shade, and is almost always hailed as perfectly balanced.”

Camino stares.

“It’s beautiful. I feel like I could look at it forever.”

“They’ll kick us out of the museum eventually, Camino.”

That earns a small laugh, and she stands a few more minutes, contemplating the canvas. And I stand next to her, remembering the first time I saw _Las Meninas_ and how excited I was. I smile to myself.

Camino eventually turns.

“What’s next?”

“You’re not tired?”

She shakes her head.

“Not at all. I am having such a good time.”

“Well, in that case…let’s continue.”

We make our way through Murillo’s works as I explain to Camino how Sevilla had an enormous influence on him, and then we walk into the space where some of my favorite Goya pieces are housed.

We study both _May 2 nd_ and _May 3 rd, 1808 in Madrid_, both impressively large canvases, where Goya truly captured the dramatic atmosphere and certain cruelty of the uprising against the French.

“He makes me feel like I’m there,” Camino comments. I glance over at her, by now getting used to her perceptiveness. She turns to meet my gaze and for a second or two, we stare at each other before I manage to speak.

“He makes you feel like you’re a part of what is happening, doesn’t he?”

Camino nods and turns back to the two paintings.

“I can feel it.”

I take a sharp breath as I feel my thumb start tapping the other fingers of my left hand.

_What the hell?_

I step back, giving Camino a moment with Goya’s genius, and my eyes briefly take in her form before my eyes dart toward the floor. I take a deep breath, and by the time she’s turned back toward me, I’ve shaken off the brief but strange feeling that gripped me for a moment. Or so I think.

She looks at me with raised eyebrows.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Hmm? Oh, yes, of course. How you would feel about taking a short break and visiting the café? And then there’s one more exhibit I’d like to show you if you’re up for it?”

Camino nods.

“Sounds great.”

We make our way back downstairs to the museum café, the number of people in the building having noticeably increased. We both order a coffee and a small pastry, and when we get to the cashier to pay it is Camino who puts her hand out this time, her fingers briefly landing on my arm.

“Maite, please, let me buy you a cup of coffee. You have been so kind to spend all morning with me.”

I glance at her hand and then up at her. I nod.

“Okay. Gracias.”

Camino pays the bill and we sit down at one of the tables, where Camino immediately starts to chatter about everything we’ve seen so far. The shyness I’ve observed in her so far seems to be cast off in the light of something she is clearly excited about.

I smile and sip my coffee, listening to her.

“So which was your favorite, do you think?” I asked when she pauses.

“Mmmm,” she muses. “Velázquez, I think.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“And why is that?”

Camino frowns a little in concentration.

“Because it doesn’t matter if he’s painting a buffoon or a drunk or a member of the royal family. All of his subjects seem to have a great dignity.”

I nod in appreciation.

“Camino, that’s very insightful.”

She shrugs, a shy expression returning to her face.

“I don’t know, it’s just what I felt when looking at his paintings.”

“No, no, you are not wrong at all. It’s one of his greatest virtues – capturing the innate humanity of his subjects regardless of their position in society.” She nods as I continue. “This is why standing in front of great works of art is so important. To really _feel_ what the artist wants to tell us.” I take a bite of my pastry and another sip of coffee. “Now, did you notice anything strange about all the artists we’ve seen so far?”

Camino’s eyebrows furrow as she thinks. Finally, she shakes her head.

“I don’t know – I give up.”

“How many of them were female?”

Her eyebrows immediately shoot up.

“Now that you mention it…none.”

“Exactly. And that’s why I want to take you to the special exhibit they’re currently running – _A Tale of Two Women Painters_. It contains the work of two Renaissance artists, Lavinia Fontana and Sofonisba Anguissola. Not only have they been largely overlooked for their contributions, but Anguissola’s works, in particular, have often been attributed to artists like El Greco and Titian instead. I think it’s very important to acknowledge women’s influence on art throughout the ages. Are you up for it?”

Camino nods her head immediately.

“Of course!”

“Bueno. Vámonos.”

\----------------------------------------------

I let myself back into my house and hang my purse and jacket on the coat hook by the door. Kicking off my shoes, I wander into my living room and sink down into the couch, tucking my legs up underneath me.

Camino and I had spent another couple hours at the Prado, making our way carefully through the special exhibit, examining the paintings, discussing their details, and the styles of both women. Camino continued to impress me with her observations and astute questions, her curiosity never seeming to waver.

Later, when we finished, and she insisted on simply walking to the metro instead of letting me drive her, I walked the few blocks with her as we continued our discussion.

“You see now why it’s so important for women to continue in the arts,” I said. “I know we’ve come a long way, but we still have to work to make our mark. When you see how hard it was for the women who came before us, we owe it to them to continue.”

“I agree,” she said. “It’s really infuriating when you think that other artists often got credit for their hard work.”

I sighed.

“Yes, well, that still happens a lot, doesn’t it? It’s our job now to build on these women’s work and then make it just a little easier for the next generation.”

We stopped in front of the metro station, and Camino had looked at me with a genuine smile.

“Thank you so much, Maite. This day has been…I can’t remember the last time I had such a good time. Do you think we could go back again soon?”

I laughed at her obvious excitement.

“Por supuesto. There is still a lot we didn’t even get to see!”

Camino answered me with an even wider smile. She then glanced at her watch and her eyes widened.

“Oh, God,” she said. “I didn’t even realize it was so late. I’ve got to get to the bar; my mom’s gonna kill me if I’m late.” She looked alarmed.

“Well, we won’t be able to return to the museum if you’re dead. Go quickly. We’ll see each other next weekend.”

She laughed and started toward the station, and then turned back once more.

“Thank you again, Maite.”

I waved at her.

“You are most welcome.”

And I had stood and watched her as she had disappeared into the crowd.

I sit for a moment, my thoughts feeling a little scattered, flicking through the images of the day. I absently run a hand through my hair before rubbing my eyes, and at last shake my head to clear it. Taking a deep breath, I get off the couch and head to the kitchen to make some tea.


	4. Camino

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feelings are starting to be felt on both sides, a little at a time. But no story is complete without a few hurdles to overcome, is it? 
> 
> *Runs off to protective custody**

I approach Maite’s studio in the growing darkness. I had sent her a text yesterday saying I couldn’t make it this Saturday because I had to help set up for an event we are hosting at the bar, and she responded that I could come this evening for a couple hours if I had the time.

In truth, this has become a fairly regular occurrence recently – a few weeks ago, I happened to comment that I felt like I had to leave on Saturday mornings right when I was really getting into a groove, and without hesitating, Maite said that I was welcome to stop by on weeknights if I had some free time. After a few minutes of arguing back and forth, mostly because I kept insisting I didn’t want to take advantage of her already generous time, Maite informed me that she would force me to paint still lifes of dried flowers for hours if I didn’t stop arguing with her.

I had smiled.

“How do you even force someone to paint?” I had asked.

“I’m not sure, but I’ll figure it out if you don’t stop arguing with me. I’m here most evenings anyway – you would not be bothering me.”

And so I didn’t have much choice but to agree. Still, I always text her just to make sure it’s okay, but so far, she’s never said no.

The lights are on in the studio, and as I get closer, I can see Maite through the door, standing at her easel, deep in concentration. I’ve spent enough time with her now that I recognize the expression on her face as one that says she’s not paying the slightest attention to anything but the canvas in front of her, so I do my best to knock softly so as not to startle her.

The sound makes her jump slightly anyway, but she breaks into a smile as I open the door and step inside.

“Camino! I’m sorry, my mind was completely elsewhere,” she says, throwing a sheet over her canvas. “Come in, come in.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” I say, as I hang up my coat and bag on the rack and grab my robe.

Maite waves her hand dismissively.

“Oh, not at all. I was just off in another world.”

“Thanks for letting me come by tonight,” I say, tying the robe around myself. “Saturday is going to be nuts at the bar.”

“Camino, should I get the dried flowers out? I’m happy for the company.”

Maite definitely does not fit the picture of what I thought serious artists were like. I assumed they were constantly absorbed in their art, wanting very little to do with people, unhappy to be interrupted. And while I’ve certainly seen Maite completely focused on something she’s working on, she is cheerful, happy to interact with others, and welcomes questions and conversations.

I make a face at her as she teases me.

“No, thank you. I’d rather keep working on what we started last week.”

Maite’s mouth lifts.

“Bueno,” she agrees.

I grab my canvas and bring it up toward the front as Maite sets the bust we’ve been studying on a stool and positions a small light over it.

I pull the sheet off my canvas, and inspect the sketch I started last Saturday. I’ve got the general outline of the feminine form, but not much else. I frown.

“And what’s that face for?” Maite asks, catching me. I look up to see her raised eyebrows.

I shrug.

“I seem to remember it being better than this,” I sigh. “Last Saturday I was pretty proud of myself.”

Maite surprises me by laughing, something I’m learning she does often.

“Now I know you’re becoming a true artist,” she explains. “Because we are _never_ satisfied with our work. We will tweak and tweak something forever because it could always use just a little something else.”

“Then how do you ever know when you’re done?” I ask.

“Ah, good question. And the answer is, maybe you never are. But there comes a time when you just have to put it out into the world and let it speak for itself. And,” she continues, seeming to anticipate my next question, “You’ll know when that time comes.”

I eye her, feeling somewhat doubtful.

“If you say so.”

That earns me another laugh.

“Always be skeptical, Camino. It will serve you well to never take anything as the gospel truth. Even from teachers,” she winks.

I smile, and duck my head.

“Now,” she says, “Continuing with this bust. For this exercise, I want you to sketch exactly what you see. No embellishments, no personal touches, just this figure in front of you. I want you to concentrate on technique, and I want you to do it again and again,” she says, emphasizing her point by making a circular motion with her hands as she walks toward the bust. “Until you know every curve as if it’s your own.” Her left hand lands on the sculpture’s shoulder, and she slides her right hand along the curve of her own hip to make her point as she talks.

I’m beginning to learn that Maite is a very visual teacher, and if she can show you something rather than just tell you, she will. It was a little strange to me at first, the ease with which she feels comfortable with herself and, by extension, those around her, and she doesn’t hesitate to use physical touch to make her point. But by now, I know it’s just who Maite is. I smile.

“Don’t worry,” I assure her. “I’ll do as you say.”

“Hmmm,” comes the quick reply, “I certainly hope not.” I look at her in confusion as she explains. “I hope you get absolutely fed up with this exercise. I hope that once you know every line, every curve, every angle, you won’t be able to resist putting your own personal spin on it, to give me _your_ interpretation. You wouldn’t be a very good artist if you didn’t. So I’m hoping you’re really pissed off after drawing this thing five, six, seven times.”

I smile faintly, considering her words. I’m trying to get used to the way Maite makes me approach painting. As recently as a few weeks ago, I used to think that you simply looked at something and then drew it or painted it or sculpted it. I hadn’t considered before that you should get to know the thing intimately, to reflect on its place in the world and its relationship to things around it. Now I find myself struggling to figure out what my subjects mean to me, and then how to transmit that to the canvas.

I stare at the bust while Maite takes off her robe and hangs it up, and then settles herself in an armchair off to my left.

Still giving the sculpture my full attention, I rest my hand at the top of my canvas, and then turn to slowly look at Maite.

“Is that what you would consider to be ‘inspiration?’ Your own personal spin?”

Maite props her chin in her hand and her eyes are shining in a way they always seem to when she starts really talking about art.

“Bueno, en un modo, sí,” she replies, “But not all of us see the body or the natural world in the same way. We are all unique in the way we choose to represent our personal points of view. You and I may see the very same thing in front of us, and paint it wildly differently based on the way we approach it. It all depends on what the subject says to _you_. And once you figure out how to transmit _that_ to the canvas, your essence and how you want to direct people’s attention, _that_ is what is going to distinguish you from all other artists.”

It is fascinating to me when Maite starts talking like this. Her passion for what she does becomes so evident, like she believes it with her entire being. I have never really met anyone like this before, someone who seems so totally suited to what she does.

And it doesn’t appear to be all talk either. It’s true, my experience is limited, but I don’t know other people so passionate about their vocation and living what they preach. I look at my mother, for example. She is good at what she does and is suited to it – she talks about working hard and has always done so – but it was also something she had to do to take care of her family, and I’m not really sure it makes her truly happy.

But Maite, she just lights up. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who genuinely finds so much joy in the world around her. As our weeks together have progressed, I have found myself swept along in her enthusiasm. If I’ve had a rough week, it almost always disappears when I step into this studio. Every time we have a discussion about art, I feel like I get to step out of my everyday self for a little while, and settle into the person I want to become. And her sense of humor and her easy way of being has made me look forward to our lessons together more and more. 

As Maite continues talking, I find myself soaking up every word, trying to absorb any nugget of wisdom she is willing to share. Almost without realizing it, I am nearly hanging on the corner of my canvas, completely absorbed in what we’re discussing – this concept of what motivates us to walk down this path that doesn’t call most people.

“And what inspires you?” I ask, the question coming out before it’s even really fully formed in my head. Perhaps it’s a little forward, but I suddenly want to know what draws her to this life.

Maite sits up, smiling wider and clearly amused.

“Pero, bueno, quien es aquí la alumna?”

I duck, immediately feeling a blush spread across my cheeks, and I once again curse at the genes that cause that reaction so easily.

But if Maite notices, she doesn’t say anything.

“Let me ask you this – what inspires _you_?” she returns, and by the tone of her voice, I know she’s genuinely interested. It’s another thing I appreciate about Maite – she never treats me like less than her equal or that I don’t know as much as she does, even if it’s true. Her approach seems to be to assume equality, but somehow also create a space where it’s okay to say “I don’t know” and ask questions. It is one of the first times in my life when I don’t feel frustrated at not always having the answer.

I look up and then off into the distance because Maite has asked the very question I’ve struggled with since I started coming here. I wish I could answer her, tell her immediately what drives me, but one of my greatest fears is that I never figure it out.

“No lo sé,” I finally admit honestly, with a little shake of my head. “La verdad que todavía no lo sé.”

Maite uncrosses her legs and stands up.

“Bueno,” she says as she walks toward me, “I will tell you what makes me paint.”

I unconsciously grip the canvas just a hair tighter as she gets closer until she is standing right in front of me, her eyes holding mine in such a way that I find it impossible to look away.

“Es la belleza,” she says softly and seriously. I wait as she pauses, holding my breath to hear what’s next. “Y la verdad.”

It is impossibly complex, and yet coming from her, it sounds so simple, as if you can just pluck beauty and truth off a street corner. She makes me think it’s possible.

“I would like to think it’s the same for me.”

“Of course,” Maite replies, still holding my gaze with almost unnerving focus. “Everyone is inspired by truth and beauty. But the thing is, not everyone considers the same things true or beautiful. The trick is, to figure that out for yourself, Camino. And _then_ you will be free. At that point, you will let go of everything you’ve learned, everything I’ve taught you or what others have taught you – style, technique, theory – and you will paint what you want. That’s the goal. Freedom.”

Maite’s words seem to wind around me, hinting at something I desperately want to understand, but is staying just out of reach, just far enough in the shadows where I can’t touch it.

“Freedom to paint whatever I want?”

She nods, her gaze not leaving mine for a second.

“Freedom to paint whatever you want and…” she hesitates, and then continues, “…to _love_ whatever you want.”

I feel a tightening in my chest and my eyes drop from Maite’s momentarily as I find myself suddenly feeling a little strange. But before I can process it, she immediately pulls my gaze to hers again as she continues.

“If you walk along that path, you’ll be able to achieve whatever you want, Camino. And no one will be able to tell you if you’re right or if you’re wrong. You will know it already, inside yourself.”

Maite’s voice is soft and there is a hint of a smile on her lips, but her eyes are dark and serious, and there is no doubt that she absolutely believes what she’s saying. And I want to believe it to – I want to believe that I will find this freedom, that it is somewhere inside just waiting for me to discover it.

We look at each other for another moment or two before I clear my throat and gaze over Maite’s shoulder at the sculpture.

“Then I guess I’d better get started,” I say, knowing the words sound awkward as soon as they leave my mouth. But I feel the overwhelming need to say something right now, and those are the words that come out.

Maite looks at me for a second longer and then nods and steps back. She gestures toward the bust.

“Feel free to get closer. Walk around it. Touch it. Look at it from every angle.”

I put down my pencil and step from behind the canvas. I circle the figure, trying to absorb the texture and the way the light is hitting it. I squat down and look up at it, reach out and touch it.

Maite stands back slightly with her arms folded. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her nod.

“Now you’re getting it,” she says. “Just because an object is stationary in front of you doesn’t mean you can’t change your own relationship to it.”

I feel myself blush a little at the praise, and I turn my face away slightly from Maite until I feel the heat recede. I stand back up, walk back to my canvas, and pick up my pencil to continue my sketch.

Maite stands just behind me for a few seconds, watching, and then I feel her hand land briefly on my shoulder and squeeze.

“Good, Camino, yes. Good adjustment.”

And then she walks away, back to her own canvas, leaving me to work quietly. She pulls the cover back off what she is currently working on, and picks up her easel.

It is not long before we are working in companionable silence.

That is, until Maite starts humming softly, another quirk of hers I’ve noticed. More often than not, it’s this current melody, pretty but slightly melancholy, which always seems to me a little at odds with her personality. But it has started weaving its way into the atmosphere of this studio, and it feels as comforting to me as the smell of paint and the vibrant colors of the artwork surrounding us.

I smile to myself and go back to my sketching.

I get so engrossed in what I am doing that I hardly notice time passing. Maite comes over once or twice to offer comments, but otherwise, I am happily working on my canvas until a sudden knock and the studio door opening causes both of us to look up.

Maite immediately steps forward, her voice raised toward the figure in the doorway.

“Excuse me, can I help you?” she asks, her voice firm and sharp, and I see her grip tighten on her paint brush.

I step toward her and hold out my hand.

“Maite, it’s okay, it’s okay,” I say hurriedly, so she’s not alarmed. “I know him. This is,” I say, glancing at the man now standing in the doorway looking a bit alarmed. “This is my boyfriend. Ildefonso.”

At that, Maite’s head swivels quickly toward me.

“Boyfriend?” she asks, and I hear a note in her voice I can’t identify.

“Yes. He’s here to pick me up.”

Ildefonso is still standing by the door, looking unsure about what to do with himself. I take a breath and remember my manners. I gesture toward Ildefonso.

“Maite, this is Ildefonso. Ildefonso, this is my art teacher, Maite.”

I see Maite’s eyes flick toward me briefly, her fleeting expression one I can’t read, before she focuses on Ildefonso and steps forward. Whatever I saw a second ago is gone, and she is smiling and holding out her hand.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” she says.

Ildefonso smiles back and shakes her hand.

“It’s nice to finally meet you too,” he says, “Camino has been talking non-stop about her lessons and her amazing teacher.”

“Ah, well, she is turning out to be a great student. It’s a pleasure to teach her.”

“I totally forgot to tell you he was coming by, I’m really sorry. I’ve got to get over to the school, and this is the only way I’d make it on time if I wanted to get in some painting.”

“School this late?” Maite asks. “Do you have an evening class?”

“Oh, no,” I say, starting to clean up my work area, “But I’ve got a couple jobs on campus to help offset tuition. I mean, I know it’s not terrible, but every little bit helps, right? And even though I get to keep my tips at the bar, you don’t exactly earn a salary working in a family business. Tonight I have a shift at the front desk at the gym.”

Maite nods.

“I see. Well, then, I’m glad you were able to come for a little bit,” she says as she steps back behind her canvas, her manner suddenly and strangely formal.

“Me too,” I say, feeling a little thrown by Maite’s behavior as I walk toward the door while taking off my robe. When I get close to Ildefonso, he puts his arm around me in a quick hug and leans in for a kiss, but I find myself turning my head so his kiss lands on my cheek instead.

I quickly smile up at him hang up my robe, grab my things, and turn.

“¿Volveré en unos días? ¿Si está bien?”

Maite smiles.

“You know it is. Anytime.”

“Gracias. Buenas noches.”

Ildefonso opens the door for me.

“Buenas noches,” he says to Maite. “Fue un placer conocerla.”

Maite nods and lifts her hand in a small wave.

“Buenas noches.”

\-----------------------------------------------------

I follow Ildefonso out to his car, and we both get in.

“So that’s the famous Maite, huh?” he asks, starting the car and pulling out.

I buckle my seatbelt.

“Yes. I’m so glad you finally got to meet her.”

“She’s not exactly what I pictured.”

I glance over at him.

“Why, what did you picture?”

He shrugs.

“I don’t know. Someone…stuffier. Crabbier.”

I laugh at the thought of Maite being either one of those things.

“Definitely not,” I reply. “I honestly can’t imagine her being crabby.”

“Well, I’m sure she is sometimes.”

Now it’s my turn to shrug.

“Probably. But she really is such a positive person.”

“Well,” Ildefonso says, reaching over and squeezing my hand, “I’m really glad you’re getting to work with her. You’ve seemed really happy recently.”

I nod, and look out the window. After a few seconds, Ildefonso clears his throat.

“There’s one thing that I’m kind of curious about, though.”

I turn back toward him.

“What’s that?”

“Well, Maite seemed surprised that I was there.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I got so caught up in painting that I completely forgot to tell her you were coming.”

“No, what I mean is, she seemed surprised that you…have a boyfriend. Have you been keeping me a secret?” His tone is light and teasing, but I can hear a hint of hurt in his voice.

“Of course not. I guess I haven’t mentioned it. It….well, it honestly hasn’t come up.”

“Camino, you’ve been working with her for a couple months now. Don’t you two talk?”

“Of course we do. But I’m there to work and learn. We don’t sit around gossiping and talking about personal things.”

The second I say the words, I feel the immediate guilt of lying. The first part is true, of course – I spend most of my time in Maite’s studio painting and trying to absorb lessons about light and texture and balance. But it’s not like we sit in the studio in stony silence.

I’ve told Maite plenty about myself – my family, how my brother managed to marry my best friend, how I’m on track to get done with my pre-requisites by the end of this year so I can apply to the art program, how I really like cooking when I’m stressed, and my fear of spilling drinks on customers (inadvertently giving Maite a good laugh). I’ve even told her how my mother and I have often butted heads about the direction my life should take – she is supportive of my artistic endeavors, but she is worried that art doesn’t pay the bills.

And I’ve learned plenty about Maite too, though I’ve had read between the lines a bit during our conversations. I have discovered she is more of a morning person than an evening person, but because of the nature of her job, she often has to work on her own art in the evening. She does not like to show anyone her works in progress as I have discovered whenever I have walked into the studio when she’s working – she quickly covers the canvas with a cloth. I’ve tried asking a few times for a peek at what she’s working on, but she shakes her head and I’ve gotten various versions of “Not until it’s done.” She has a sly sense of humor which makes an appearance when I’m least expecting it, and she is an unapologetic feminist, bringing subjects to my attention I hadn’t even thought about.

But in all our conversations, somehow the fact that I have a boyfriend has never come up, and I’m not sure exactly why. Or, more to the point, I’m not sure if I want to examine why. Because Ildefonso is not wrong – it is surely something I could have worked into the conversation at some point, and yet…I haven’t.

I frown to myself.

Ildefonso glances over at me, reacting to what I know is my defensive tone.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean to upset you. I know how important this is to you.” He reaches over and squeezes my hand again.

“No, it’s okay, I’m not upset,” I answer, somehow feeling even more guilty now that he is apologizing to me. Ever since we started dating, Ildefonso has been nothing but supportive and encouraging of my interest in art, and he has even defended it to my mother, not an easy thing to do. I have felt very lucky to have him in my life – he is sweet, kind, and I know he only wants the best for me.

I squeeze his hand back and offer him a smile.

“Thank you,” I say.

He glances over at me again.

“For what?”

“For being you.”

Ildefonso gives a small laugh and shrugs.

“Who else would I be?”

By this time, we’re on campus and we pull up to the front of the gym.

I lean over to kiss Ildefonso’s cheek.

“Thank you for picking me up,” I say, opening the car door. “I really appreciate it.”

Ildefonso lifts a hand and waves at me as I close the door, and he lowers the passenger side window.

“Are we still on for Friday night?” he calls before I turn.

I think for a second, and then remember that we’re supposed to go out for dinner.

I nod.

“Yeah, of course. I’ll text you tomorrow!”

“Okay, sounds good! Love you!”

I blow him a kiss and head into the building.

When I get inside, I go to my locker and pull out what I’d stashed there earlier – some reading I have to do for one of my classes and a sketchbook and pencils I always kept on hand. I make my way to the front desk and relieve my predecessor, settling into the chair.

I love this particular job – the pay is just okay, but it’s easy, and it lets me earn some money while giving me time to do my schoolwork or get some drawing done.

I crack open the book and begin to read. But after several minutes of reading the same sentence over and over and not having any actual understanding of it, I sigh and put the book down. I think about my conversation with Ildefonso in the car, feeling slightly strange about it, but not being able to put my finger on why. And then I think further back in the evening, standing in the studio with Maite, listening to her tell me about how to discover my own truth, my own freedom. I can see her sitting in the chair off to my left, looking at me with that amused expression of hers that seems to always appear when she’s teasing.

I close my eyes and lay my hands flat on the desk and take several deep breaths. When I open them again, I reach for my sketch book and pencils, and I begin to draw.


	5. Maite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know it's been a while! But to make it up to you, I'm giving you a chapter that is a pretty decent length. And a huge shout out to RG, who very kindly and thoughtfully kept me caffeinated for this one with some delicious Starbucks - thank you, my friend!
> 
> So please read and enjoy, and I hope it finds all of you having a good start to your week!

“Hey, how’s that new student you took on?”

Sophie is camped out in my office in the extra chair, feet propped up on my desk. I’m trying to grade papers, but with Sophie distracting me every few minutes, I’m not getting very far.

“Hmmm?” I ask, half listening to her, and half making sure that one of my students understands Caravaggio’s use of chiaroscuro.

“That new student you were taking on…are you still teaching her?”

The image of Camino instantly pops into my head, and I internally curse Sophie. For once in the last few weeks, I’d managed to mentally push that particular subject out of the way, and it’s certainly the last thing I want to talk about. I make a vague sound.

“Oh, yeah. It’s, ah, it’s going well.”

“So how bad is she?”

I finally look up at Sophie.

“How bad?”

“Oh, come on, Maite. A friend asks you to take on a random student who ‘likes to paint?’ There’s no way she’s any good.”

I shake my head.

“Actually, Camino is quite talented.”

Sophie looks surprised.

“Really?”

“Yes. I mean, it’s raw talent. She’s just starting out. But she has a good eye and a feel for the canvas.”

“Huh. Well, I guess that’s good for you. You’re not completely bored out of your mind.”

 _Definitely not bored_ , the little voice in my head pipes up, which I immediately silence.

“Mmmhmm,” I try to sound as non-committal as possible, hoping Sophie might drop it. But unfortunately for me, Sophie doesn’t seem to have anything better to do.

“So what’s she like?”

“Sophie….” I gesture to the papers in front of me.

“Oh, come on, Maite,” Sophie wheedles. “We both know you don’t want to be reading those.”

I sigh.

“Fine. Um, Camino is…” _Smart. Talented. Attract– Shut. up._ “…a good student. She shows a lot of promise. She works hard.” _And she’s got an inconvenient boyfriend_.

I clear my throat and shake my head to clear it as Sophie continues.

“Yeah, but what’s she like? I mean, since you’re still teaching her, I assume she’s at least good company.”

I shrug.

“Sure. I mean, she’s kind. Funny.” My eyes drop back to the paper in front of me. “I enjoy spending time with her.”

“Hmmm,” Sophie replies, settling back in her chair.

I look up at Sophie and there’s an expression on her face I can’t quite read.

“What?” I ask her.

She holds up her hands and shakes her head.

“Nada,” she says, “I’m glad she’s working out.”

I narrow my eyes at her. Whenever Sophie agrees with something too readily, it’s usually cause for suspicion. But she’s now looking back at my placidly, and frankly, I don’t want to give her any clues about the unwanted thoughts I’ve been having lately. I love my friend, but she’s like a bulldog with a bone if she senses something’s going on, and since I fully intend to get whatever this _thing_ is that I’ve been feeling for the last couple weeks under control, there is no need to involve anyone else.

_Then why haven’t you yet?_

I take a deep breath and change the subject before we wander down a road I have no intention of going down.

“How’s Nicolás?” I ask, flipping over another paper.

Sophie makes a dismissive noise and waves her hand.

“Oh, I got rid of him.”

I give her a surprised look.

“That was fast. What happened?”

“He turned out to be a giant ass. And homophobic, I might add.”

I shake my head.

“Awesome. How did you find that out so quickly?”

“Oh, we were out with some of his friends and he told this horrible joke, and all of his idiot friends thought it was hilarious. And that was the end of that.”

Now I’m intrigued because Sophie is not one to take these things lightly. I give her a look.

“What did you do?”

Sophie grins wickedly.

“Let’s just say, as I was walking out of the bar, he was in need of some napkins.”

I whistle softly.

“Goodbye, Nicolás. So….anyone new?”

Sophie wiggles her eyebrows.

“Oui, oui.”

I laugh and shake my head. “Do tell.”

“Julien. Very handsome and very French.”

“And where did Julien come from?”

“Mmm…,” she smiles. “From the opening of that new sculpture exhibit I went to at the Museo de Arte Contemporáneo. He’s an art critic.”

“I see. Well, looks like our time going to school in Paris is going to pay off for you.”

“Indeed. I’ve been dusting off my French knowledge, and not just the language.” I am treated to another eyebrow wiggle and I chuckle. “And actually, while we’re on the subject of French people…” She trails off, and it’s my turn to raise my eyebrows.

“Yes?”

I see Sophie hesitate, and I instantly tense up because I know this face, and I can make a pretty good guess about what she’s going to say. We go through this every so often.

“Well, Julien has a sister,” she starts. I sigh loudly as she continues, “And I’ve met her, and she’s super cute, and –”

“Sophie,” I warn, but Sophie plunges ahead, completely ignoring me.

“Maite, come _on_. It’s been _ages_. I’m surprised there aren’t cobwebs growing on you. I have met Stella, and she’s lovely and intelligent.”

“Not interested, Sophie,” I tell her pointedly. But now Sophie has a hold of the bone.

“Maite, you know I love you to pieces, and so I say this with all the love in my heart – it’s time to get off your ass and back in the game.”

I blow out another long sigh.

“Sophie, you know how I feel about this. No.”

Sophie leans forward.

“Give me one good reason.”

“Ángela.”

Sophie’s expression softens.

“That was so long ago, Maite. You can’t keep using that forever.”

“Then how about the fact that I don’t want to?”

_Because there’s someone else?_

I clench my teeth together.

 _Fuck off_.

The look that was on Sophie’s face earlier reappears for a second, like she’s processing new information, and then it’s gone again.

“That’s an even worse reason,” she informs me.

“No, it’s not,” I protest. “It’s a perfectly good reason. It’s the same reason you give me anytime I ask you if you want to go for a run with me.”

“Totally different.”

I roll my eyes.

“How?”

“Because that’s when _I_ don’t want to.”

“Oh, I see,” I shake my head incredulously. “Sophie, _no_.”

“Maite, stop it. You’re going on a date, and you’re going on a date with Stella. And that’s final.”

She digs into her pocket, extracts her cell phone, and swipes it open. A couple seconds later, my own phone vibrates.

“That’s Stella’s number. She’s expecting your call.”

“What?! Why the hell is she expecting my call?”

Sophie smiles sweetly at me.

“Because I told her you’d be calling.”

I stare at my best friend in disbelief.

“I hate you,” I tell her.

“Oh, I’m aware,” she replies standing up. She leans over the desk to kiss my cheek as I frown at her. “Call her. There’s a new little restaurant I’ve discovered, and it’s the perfect spot for a date. You’ll love it.”

Sophie straightens up, winks at me, and heads for the door. I stop her.

“Sophie, if I do this, will you leave me alone?”

Sophie stops and looks like she’s thinking and then shrugs.

“At least for a little while.”

I narrow my eyes at her.

“Is this one gay at least?”

Sophie gives me an annoyed look.

“That was _one_ time!”

“Sophie.”

Now she rolls her eyes at me and sighs.

“Yes, this one is super gay. Rainbows, sits sideways in chairs, the works. I think she’s even got a cat.”

I frown.

“I hate cats.”

“Maite.”

“Ugh, _fine_. I’ll call her. And I will go on one stupid date to make you happy. But then, you drop it.”

Sophie smiles as she processes that I’m actually giving in.

“Deal. You’re going to like her. Promise.”

“Sophie, get out before I change my mind.”

She laughs lightly and scoots out the door.

“You’re welcome!” I hear as she disappears down the hallway.

I glance at my phone, and then drop my head in my hands, not actually believing what I just got talked into.

 _Terrific_. 

\------------------------------------------

I am sitting at my drafting table, sketching out some ideas for a piece that a client commissioned, but I’m having some trouble concentrating, going over the same lines again and again in hopes that something new will come to mind.

At the forefront of my thoughts is the ridiculous date I have set up for tomorrow evening, and I wonder for the hundredth time how I got talked into this. I run through all the possible excuses I can use to get out of it, but then I remind myself that Sophie will only make me reschedule, and I know that the lesser of the two evils is just to go and get it over with, and earn myself a few months’ peace.

To make matters even more interesting, Camino is just off to my right, working on the finishing touches of her _Venus de Milo_ painting. After we’d worked on the bust, she wanted to come back to this one, saying she’d like to apply what she’d learned since she started it. I had agreed – the last thing I want to do is dampen any of her enthusiasm.

I glance over at her, and she is completely engrossed in the canvas in front of her. My gaze lingers on her for a few more seconds, taking in the small details – her fingers curled around her palette, the way she’s chewing on her lower lip in concentration, the shift of her weight from one foot to the other as she changes her position.

_Maite…._

I blink and turn my attention back to my sketch, which, not surprisingly, hasn’t drawn itself while I was…checking up on my student. I look down at it with renewed determination and start drawing again. I even manage to actually get something on paper that isn’t half bad by the time I register that Camino is beginning to clean up her work space. I look up.

“All set?”

Camino nods.

“I think so. I think….well, I think I’m done with it.”

“Ah, sí?”

This is the first piece she’s completed, and I see a slight smile on her lips. I smile back.

I can see the light of satisfaction in her eyes as well as the hint of shyness that always appears when she’s unsure about something.

“Well, let’s take a look,” I say as I stand up.

I walk around the canvas as she continues putting away her supplies. I stop in front of the painting and study it carefully – the brushstrokes, the composition, the use of color. I must admit, I am impressed.

“It is amazing how far you’ve come in such a short amount of time,” I say, taking in the whole canvas. I turn toward her. “You’ve really come a long way with both the use of the oils and with your treatment of the human figure.”

Camino comes to stand beside me, hands clasped in front of her, a pleased look on her face.

“I have learned more in the last couple months than I have in my entire life,” she says, nodding, and then she looks up directly at me. “Estoy muy agradecida.”

I shake my head.

“You don’t have to thank me. Teaching you has hardly been any work. It’s been a pleasure.”

_Careful, Maite…._

Camino’s smile widens a bit as I continue. “You’re talented, Camino. And once you become more and more familiar with the canvas, the paints, the different brushes…a new world is going to open up to you. Ya lo verás.” I motion to her notebook sitting on a stool nearly. “No todo en la vida es blanco y negro.”

Camino nods and then her expression turns a little more serious.

“Sí, you’ve taught me that there are many more colors in the world.”

I take a deep breath and smile back even as it dawns on me that maybe we’re talking about more than just painting.

However, Camino is still talking, and I force myself to pay attention.

“But I have to admit that, not having all this at home, I went back to the black and white of my sketchbook,” she says, walking a couple steps away to pick it up before returning. She looks shy again as she glances down and rubs her thumb over the cover before lifting her eyes back to me. A nervous ripple runs through me that I can’t explain.

_Can’t you?_

“I’ve been so thankful for your help and your kindness that I…I wanted to give you something,” Camino continues. I look down as her fingers flip through her notebook until she finds what she’s looking for. “I know it’s not much, but…I drew this for you.” She flips over the paper and hands it to me.

I take the offered piece and turn it toward me, and I instantly freeze, staring at the picture in my hands, stunned.

It is a portrait of me.

I easily recognize it as the moment from last week when Camino and I started talking about what it meant to be inspired. In the picture, I am sitting off to the side, my legs crossed, one arm draped over the chair, one propped under my chin, looking up toward the side of the picture, where the hint of an easel and canvas are just peeking out from the edge. I feel slightly light-headed as I realize Camino has inserted herself into the portrait.

I take a few steps away from Camino, picture in hand, willing my hand to stop shaking as I continue to study the drawing in front of me.

I hear Camino walk up behind me and I take a breath to steady myself. Camino peers at me.

“Maite? Are you okay? Why do you look so serious?” she asks, concern in her voice. I risk a momentary glance at her before looking away again. “You don’t like it,” she concludes at my continued silence.

“No, no, no,” I say quickly, but Camino is already talking over me, words coming out all in a rush.

“It’s just a sketch, I could continue working on it and –”

“No, de verdad, no es eso,” I stop her, looking directly in her eyes. Just as fast, my gaze drops back to the picture. “No es eso.” And then, flustered, I keep talking without really thinking about what I’m saying. “It’s just, this woman you’ve drawn…it’s not me,” I can see Camino frown from the corner of my eye. “Es bellisima y muy atractiva…Ojalá fuera como ella.” I trail off, but I can’t stop staring at the portrait in my hand, my mind feeling hazy.

“Ya lo es.”

Camino’s words break the silence sitting between us and cut through the fog in my head, and I turn to look at her sharply. And for once, she doesn’t look away from me, her gaze steady and sure.

“Al menos así lo veo yo.”

Her voice is soft but confident, and she continues to look directly at me for a few seconds before her gaze finally drops off to the side, and her jaw muscles clench briefly. I’m still looking at her, and I have no idea what to do next. The air between us is heavy with an energy that feels both confusing and dangerous, and I know two things immediately – I cannot even sort of contemplate its meaning, and I need to put an end to it _now_.

I clear my throat.

“Thank you…for this. But it’s getting late, and I have an early class tomorrow…”

_Brilliant, Maite. Might as well tell her you have “something” to do._

After a second, Camino nods and backs up a few steps.

“De acuerdo.”

She moves to gather up her things and I walk over and lay her gift on my drafting table. I turn around in time to see her bend to pick up her bag, and my eyes drop to the length of her back and then further down until I catch myself.

_Maite!_

I turn away quickly and walk to the door, opening it for her as she grabs her coat and puts it on. She stops as she passes me, and looks at me.

“I’ll see you in a couple days,” she says quietly.

I nod.

“A couple days, yes.”

“Buenas noches.”

“Buenas noches,” I reply, and then I close the door on her retreating figure, watching as she disappears up the path.

When I can no longer see her, I turn and slowly walk back to my drafting table, picking up Camino’s portrait of me once more. Alone, I now notice the attention to detail, how she has carefully drawn the folds in my clothes, the natural fall of my hair over my shoulder, the way she’s shown the light illuminating my left side. I can even see the slight smudges where she erased and redrew the lines around my eyes and mouth.

And then I return again to the fact that her presence can also very much be felt in this portrait, standing at her easel, watching me carefully – a moment in time in the quiet darkness of the studio when I perhaps got carried away with the things I was telling her, but couldn’t stop myself. The thought of that moment captured here in simple charcoal makes me feel shaky, and I close my eyes and press my hands to the table to steady myself.

My thoughts are tangled and my stomach feels anxious like it hasn’t in ages, and I know none of this is good. I open my eyes and stare at the portrait.

“¿Qué estás haciendo, Maite?”

Predictably, there is no answer.

\------------------------------------------

A few days later, I’m standing in front of my second year students in my Renaissance and Baroque Art History Course. I much prefer teaching hands-on classes, but we all have to teach at least one theory class each semester, and at least this class is one I’ve taught so many times, it doesn’t take much brain power anymore.

We are currently knee-deep in the Renaissance, and I’ve got Raphael’s _Philosophy (School of Athens)_ projected onto the screen at the front of the room.

“Can anyone tell me who the two statues are here and here?” I ask, using my small laser pointer to indicate the two figures recessed in the alcoves.

Most of the class looks back at me blankly, but Maya, one of my most eager students, immediately raises her hand. I nod at her.

“Apollo and Athena,” she answers quickly.

“Bien. I see at least one of you did the reading,” I say dryly, eliciting a murmur of laughter.

“And can anyone tell me about the central figures here?” I point to the two men in the middle.

I look around at the class again as most of them try to avoid my eyes. Maya, of course, has her hand raised.

“Gonzalo?” I ask, calling on a young man halfway back in the lecture hall who looks like he’s enjoying his usual hour’s nap in my class. He rouses at his name, and blinks at me.

“Yes?”

“These two men,” I say, pointing again. “Can you tell me who they are?”

Gonzalo peers up at the screen for a second.

“Plato and Aristotle,” he answers almost immediately. I fight the urge to smile. Gonzalo is actually very smart and talented, but he is one of those truly annoying students who does well while barely lifting a finger.

“And what is the significance of the men on either side of them?” I prompt further.

Gonzalo sighs and sits up.

“The people with Plato are ancient philosophers who want to know the answers to those big life questions. All the guys with Aristotle are mathematicians and scientists, more interested in the laws of nature and man.”

This time I do smile because, of course, he is absolutely right.

“Thank you, Gonzalo. Enjoy the rest of your nap.”

There is another twitter of laughter throughout the room. Gonzalo gives me an amused smile and slouches back down in his chair.

It is then that I notice the door to the back of the lecture hall open, and a familiar figure slips through, silhouetted for a moment by the light coming in from the hall. She stands for a moment, probably adjusting to the dim light, and then I see her slide quietly into a seat at the rear of the room.

I immediately suck in a quick breath as a small shiver runs through me, and I straighten quickly, my eyes straining toward the back. But with the lights dimmed and the PowerPoint presentation right next to me, my attempt to see anything beyond the middle of the room is useless.

“Profesora?” I hear Maya’s voice off to my side.

“Hmm?” I ask, turning toward her.

“Are you alright?”

I shake my head.

“Yes, of course. I just lost my train of thought for a second. Let’s see, where were we?”

I teach the rest of the class on autopilot, somehow continuing the discussion of this particular painting in detail – how it is an almost perfect representation of the High Renaissance, that it shows the nature of calm reason that was prized at the time, how each character is intended to communicate a specific mood.

Luckily, muscle memory takes over, and my mouth seems to know what words to say when, while all the while my attention is trained on the back of the room. We get through two more slides before the bell rings out in the hall.

“Please make sure you do the reading assigned in the syllabus. We start with His Lordship next week – Michelangelo!”

The students make their way toward the door as quickly as they can. Gonzalo, the last to leave, strolls out whistling a lazy tune to himself.

I shake my head as he goes past me. I guess I should be happy he at least comes to class.

I turn my gaze toward the back of the hall as I shut off the projector, and the figure still in her seat stands up and starts walking up the aisle. There is no stopping the smile on my face as Camino approaches. I haven’t see her since she gave me the portrait, and I’m eager to put the awkwardness of that evening behind us.

“¡Camino! ¡Qué sorpresa!”

Her own smile lights up her whole face.

“I’m sorry I barged in in the middle of class like that. But I remembered you saying you had an afternoon class, and I happened to be on campus, so…I was curious. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, of course not, not at all,” I respond, a part of me wondering how she found my class at all as I don’t remember telling her any details.

“It was really interesting, I enjoyed it.”

I nod and smile, making myself busy by starting to gather my things.

“Probably more than most of my students,” I laugh.

I am trying to keep the conversation light, but Camino answers in a serious tone.

“I can’t wait to take this class,” she says, and I look up at her to see an earnest expression on her face. I stop what I’m doing and give her my full attention.

“I know, Camino. And I know you’ll truly appreciate it. Some of my students, they just want to get to the part where they paint or sculpt or whatever, and they don’t want to put in the time learning about who came before them. But I would like to think that knowing what came before helps shape where you’re going.”

Camino’s eyes don’t leave mine.

“I think so too,” she answers softly. “I’ve been reading as much as I can.”

“That’s great, Camino. I also have some books you are welcome to borrow if you’d like.”

“Sí, I would like that very much,” Camino nods. “I would love if you could make some recommendations.” And as her voice trails off, we find ourselves staring at each other, and I apparently can neither move nor find something to say as Camino’s dark eyes look directly into mine. I am vaguely aware that I’m holding my breath, and the sensation from when Camino gave me the portrait comes roaring back.

Luckily, we are saved from a soon-to-be very awkward silence.

I hear Sophie before I can see her.

“Maite, why must I run all over creation trying to find you?” Sophie’s voice rounds the corner just before she comes striding into the room. Both Camino and I turn our heads toward her, and Sophie stops short when she sees us both.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she apologizes, starting to back up. “I didn’t realize you were with a student.”

I shake my head.

“No, no, Sophie, it’s fine,” I wave her forward, relief flooding through me, and then indicate Camino. “Sophie, this is Camino, my student I’ve been telling you about. Camino, this is my best friend and fellow art teacher, Sophie.”

Sophie’s eyes light up as she starts walking forward.

“Ah, Camino, I’ve heard so much about you,” she says, reaching out to shake her hand. Camino glances over at me quickly before returning the handshake.

“It’s really nice to meet you,” she replies.

“Maite tells me you’re quite talented.”

Camino immediately blushes.

“Oh, um, I don’t know about that. But I’m so lucky to have such a wonderful teacher.”

Sophie looks at me and smiles brightly.

“She is pretty great, isn’t she?”

I narrow my eyes briefly at Sophie because she is acting… overly bubbly.

But Camino just nods and then looks straight at me.

“Absolutely,” she responds and I see briefest flash of something before she turns back to Sophie.

“What do you teach?” she asks.

Sophie settles herself on the corner of the desk.

“Sculpture, mostly.”

Camino’s expression turns from polite to interested.

“Oh, I’ve never tried that. But I would like to.”

Sophie glances back at me.

“You know, Maite’s not too bad when it comes to sculpting herself.”

I make a face at her.

“What a stunning vote of confidence, thank you.”

I see Camino’s amused look at my friend’s teasing as Sophie shrugs.

“Well, you’re not…for a painter.”

“Sophie, you are such a snob.”

Sophie turns back to Camino and winks.

“That’s one hundred percent true. But you should get her to let you try it.” She leans toward Camino and continues in a mock whisper, “She’s actually pretty good.”

Camino looks up at me hopefully, and I nod.

“We’ll get to it, I promise,” I say. “Soon.”

Camino smiles happily, and then looks up at the clock on the wall.

“I’m sorry, I’ve got to get going. I have to get to the bar. Sophie, it was really nice to meet you. Maite, I’ll see you soon.”

I lift my hand in a small wave, and Sophie offers a goodbye before Camino hurries out the door.

Sophie turns toward me.

“Bar?”

“Huh? Oh,” I reply, slinging my bag over my shoulder as we walk out the door. “Her mother owns a bar. She works there a lot – family business.”

“Ah,” Sophie says as we stroll down the hallway. We walk for a moment in silence before Sophie turns toward me.

“Well, are you going to tell me about it, or what?”

An icy knife of anxiety stabs me in the chest at Sophie’s question.

“What do you mean?” I ask as evenly as I can, knowing full well how strangely perceptive Sophie can be.

Sophie rolls her eyes.

“The _date_ , Maite. How was the date?!”

It is all I can do to not breathe a huge sigh of relief.

Oh, the _date_.

“Oh, ah, it was good. It was fine,” I answer, turning the corner of the hallway.

Sophie groans.

“Good? Fine? That’s it?”

I walk into my office and Sophie follows me, immediately making herself comfortable in the chair as I settle behind my desk and reach for my water bottle, taking several long gulps, giving myself a moment to compose myself.

When I put it down, I shrug.

“Yeah, it was fine. I called her, we went to that restaurant you recommended, we chatted, I went home. I completed all the requirements.”

Sophie tips her head back in frustration and pinches the bridge of her nose. She eventually looks back up at me.

“Maite, is the engine even running under the hood anymore?!”

_Unfortunately, yes._

I make a face at her. “Never mind.”

“Maite, I’ve met Stella. She’s a babe. She’s smart, witty, fun. The restaurant I sent you to has just the right romantic vibe without being overwhelming. How in God’s name did you not get laid?”

“If you like her so much, _you_ date her,” I reply, leaning back in my chair and taking another sip of my water.

“You are such a pain in my ass. Did you not have a good time?”

I think back to a few nights ago. I met Stella at the restaurant. And Sophie was right, it was a great spot, the food was good, and it was cozy and comfortable. She was also right about Stella being attractive – a few inches taller than me, dark blonde hair cut about shoulder length, a friendly face, and curves that did not go unnoticed (by me and several other patrons the restaurant, as it happened). The conversation even flowed fairly naturally, the parts that I can remember anyway. She was charming, at times funny, and I could tell she was…interested.

The trouble was, I was not. Because every time I looked across the table, it felt wrong. And suddenly, I wanted to get out of there as fast as possible, not only to get the evening over with, but to figure out how to deal with what I knew was starting to become a problem. Because at this point, I was not so clueless as to be unaware of who I wanted to see across the table from me instead of this perfectly charming woman whose company I should have been enjoying. And that was _definitely_ a problem. A big one. For so many reasons, I didn’t even care to count.

So I had wrapped the evening up, avoided her attempt at a kiss by leaning in quickly and kissing her on the cheek instead, thanked her for a lovely evening, and headed for the metro station.

Upon getting home, I broke out a bottle of absinthe, an indulgence from my time in Paris, and had wandered out to my studio where I proceeded to sit on the couch while staring at the portrait Camino drew, got pretty damn drunk, and came up with zero solutions to my current problem.

And now Sophie wanted to know if I’d had a good time.

“Sophie, I appreciate the effort, I really do. It was a nice evening, and she was pleasant to talk to. But you know how I feel about this.”

My best friend sighs.

“One of these days,” she says, standing up, “We’re going to find you a woman, and you’re going to be so crazy about her you won’t be able to see straight, and none of these barriers you’ve put up are going to matter. And on that day, I’m hiring a freaking sky writer, and I’m going to announce to everyone in the greater Madrid area that Maite Zaldúa is in love.”

“I’m not sure who will love that more – my students or the university.”

“When it happens, we’ll find out.”

“You seem awfully sure of yourself.”

Sophie taps the side of her head. “I know things.”

I chuckle despite myself. “Ah, I see.”

“Okay, I’ve got to go,” she says, glancing at her watch. “Since my matchmaking skills are clearly lacking, I have to keep my day job, and I’ve got class in a few minutes. But I will see you later. Do you want to have dinner soon?”

I nod.

“Sure. Next week some time?”

“Sold. Love you,” she tosses over her shoulder, blowing me a kiss.

I smile as she leaves and then I’m left with all my thoughts, most of which I want nothing to do with.

I sigh and pick up a stack of essays and begin to read.


	6. Camino

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, less than three weeks for an update! *pats self on back* 
> 
> I'm not sure I have anything profound to say today, so I will just let you get on with the story, and see how our little Camino is doing!

“Camino, come _on_. We’re going to be late, and then we’re going to catch hell!”

I hear my brother’s voice from the bottom of the stairs, and I start. I glance at the watch near my bed.

_Oh, crap._

I’ve been sketching for hours, and hadn’t noticed the time. We are due at my mother’s for dinner in half an hour, and I haven’t even gotten ready.

I quickly hop up and stick my head out the door.

“Sorry, sorry! Give me five minutes. I’ll be right down.”

I hear my brother grumble, but then I hear Cinta’s voice soothing him, and I am grateful, not for the first time, that I have an ally in this house. I adore my brother, but we certainly know how to push each other’s buttons.

I change my clothes quickly, picking out pants and a blouse that my mother won’t complain about, and run a quick brush through my hair before pulling it up in a ponytail, having no time for anything else. That part she will be annoyed by, but I might just break even with my outfit. I grab a pair of ankle boots from my closet and hurry down the stairs.

Emilio is standing there, coat already on, with his typical big brother look on his face. I roll my eyes at him.

“Sí, sí, lo sé. We’re going to be late. I lost track of time.”

He sighs.

“You seem to be doing that a lot these days.”

I stand up, having put on my boots, and give him a look.

“If I wanted annoying opinions about my life, I would have stayed with our mother.”

Emilio starts to open his mouth to offer what I am sure is a prim retort, but Cinta swoops in, carrying a bottle of wine and my jacket, the latter of which she hands to me.

“Knock it off, you two,” she says, her tone one of long-suffering exasperation. “And to think, sometimes I wished I had a brother or sister.”

Emilio and I both grin, and Emilio immediately wraps me in a big bear hug, smothering me and pressing loud kisses to the side of my head.

“Eh, sisters aren’t so bad,” he says as Cinta looks at us both like she’s looking after small children.

I squirm away from Emilio, shoving him good-naturedly as he laughs. “I can’t say the same for brothers. They are an acquired taste.”

“You are both going to be the death of me,” Cinta says, opening the front door. “Let’s go, before we have to hear from Felicia about how being late is a character flaw.”

I pull on my jacket, and follow my brother and sister-in-law out the door.

\-------------------------

“¡Hola, mamá!” I call as I step into my mother’s house, Emilio and Cinta right behind me.

“In here!” my mother’s muffled reply comes from the kitchen. The three of us hang up our coats and walk in the direction of the voice.

We find my mother in the kitchen, peering into the oven, checking on what looks to be several roast chickens getting nice and golden. She slides them back in, shuts the door, and straightens up.

“You’re late,” she informs us, taking us all in. I stifle a sigh.

“By seven minutes, mamá. I don’t think the world will end.”

“Well, we shall see, won’t we?” she says, but by the tone of her voice, I know she’s teasing. She opens her arms. “I know you don’t live here anymore, but do I still get a hug?”

I smile. “Of course,” I reply and walk forward to hug her. She closes her arms around me, and I can smell her familiar perfume, the one she’s worn all my life. The scent is comforting.

She pulls back. “It’s good to see you, hija mía.” And then she turns her attention to Emilio and Cinta, giving them equally big hugs, and accepting the bottle of wine Cinta offers her. She looks at the label. “Oh, this will go very well with today’s dinner. Gracias.”

I poke my nose into the various pots on the stove, sniffing.

“This looks amazing. But it’s a lot of food for just the four of us, no?”

“Oh, we have a couple last minute guests. I ran into Silvia a few days ago at the market, and it was so nice to catch up, and she was saying how long it’s been since she saw all of you, so….I invited her and Pepa to join us tonight.”

I smile. “Oh, how nice. It has been a long time since we saw them.”

My mother raises her eyebrows at me. “And it might be a nice opportunity to thank Silvia for introducing you to your art teacher.”

I swear, sometimes my mother still thinks I’m five-years-old and in need of lessons in manners.

“Yes, thank you,” I say, “That would otherwise never have occurred to me.”

My mother’s response is thankfully cut off when we hear a sharp knock at the front door, and a moment later a breezy “¡Hola!” that I recognize as Silvia’s voice.

“Ah, they’re here!” My mother says, and starts walking out of the kitchen. The three of us follow her. Emilio leans toward me.

“I’ll bet _they_ don’t get in trouble for being late,” he whispers in my ear, and I grin.

I walk into the front room just in time to see my mother greeting Silvia, who is smiling warmly and dressed elegantly as usual, her trademark mane of unruly red hair falling loosely down her back. She hugs my mother.

“Thank you so much for inviting us,” she says, “This is such a treat.”

Silvia and my mother have been friends for some time, since I was little, and I have always found her to be sweet and kind, if a little tightly strung. But I suppose if you spend all day dissecting bodies as a forensics inspector that might happen. She’s also serious and on the shy side, which I can relate to, and maybe that’s why we’ve always gotten on so well. And I will be forever grateful that when she discovered how important art had become to me, she did not hesitate in offering to contact Maite and set something up.

Behind her, I catch of glimpse of Silvia’s wife. Tall and lanky, Pepa is the yin to Silvia’s yang. With straight, nearly-black hair just past her shoulders, Pepa’s eyes always seem to hold mischievous intent, and I don’t think I have ever seen her without her beloved gun, her favorite accessory as a police officer. Even now, I can just see the hint of her shoulder holster under the blazer she is wearing, and I have often heard Silvia joke that it is the one thing Pepa loves more than her. But her affinity for firearms aside, I’ve liked Pepa ever since she became a part of Silvia’s life – she is no-nonsense and straightforward with a wicked sense of humor, the latter of which she often enjoys using to tease her wife.

On paper, they are oil and water, but in practice they are a balanced, if unusual, match. Being around them makes me happy, and I’m so pleased my mother thought to invite them.

Greetings are made all around, Silvia and Pepa both exclaiming upon seeing Emilio and me as we all try to remember the last time we were together. 

My mother presses Emilio into service to get everyone a drink and we settle into the living room to chat while the chickens finish roasting. Silvia sits beside Pepa on the couch, and turns her attention to me.

“So, Camino, I’m dying to know – how are things going with Maite?”

I cannot stop the huge smile that spreads across my face.

“Silvia, it’s amazing! I _cannot_ thank you enough for putting me in touch with her.”

Silvia’s expression is one of delight. “Oh, I am so glad to hear that! And are you learning a lot?”

I nod enthusiastically. “So much, I can’t even tell you. I really had no idea what I didn’t know. It’s only been a few months, but I feel like I’ve learned more than I’ve learned in my entire life. Maite is an amazing teacher.”

Silvia nods.

“We have a couple of her paintings at home. She is very talented.”

“Yes, she is,” I agree, even though I secretly feel a little frustrated that I haven’t gotten to see many of Maite’s pieces, given her propensity for keeping her works in progress under tight wraps.

“So, Camino,” my brother pipes in, “Why haven’t we seen any of your masterpieces yet?”

I roll my eyes at Emilio. “We’ve really been working on a lot of little things. Nothing that comes close to something I’d show in public yet.”

“So do you just sit around painting flower pots? Or sunsets? Or,” he says, smirking, “Are there models in the studio? Do you paint nudes?”

That comment earns Emilio a dark look from me and a smack from his wife as Pepa perks up next to Silvia.

“Nudes?” she asks. “There are nude models at Maite’s?”

“No!” I answer quickly. “I mean, yes. I mean, I haven’t seen any, we haven’t worked with any. But yeah, she uses them sometimes, when she’s working on a human figure piece.”

“Hmm,” Pepa muses, turning toward her wife with a sly grin. “Maybe we should take an art class, Pelirroja.”

Silvia makes a face at Pepa and elbows her. Pepa grins and shrugs and winks over at me, and I can’t help but laugh. Silvia sighs and shakes her head and then turns her attention back to me.

“Camino, don’t listen to any of them. I’m so happy things are working out with Maite. I really am. Please say hello to her the next time you see her.”

I nod. “I will.”

My mother, who disappeared into the kitchen a few minutes ago, comes back into the room.

“If everyone would like to sit down at the table, dinner is just about ready.”

We all stand up, and make our way to the dining room.

The meal is delicious, and everyone praises it throughout the dinner conversation as we catch up on each other’s lives.

After everyone has eaten their fill, my mother and Silvia disappear into the kitchen to make coffee and prepare the dessert Silvia brought, the others wander back into the living room, and I offer to gather up the last of the dishes. I stack a few plates and start carrying them to the kitchen. As I get near, I can hear my mother and Silvia talking.

“Silvia, thank you so much again for putting Camino in touch with your friend. She’s really enjoying her classes.”

“I am really happy to hear that. Maite is a very gifted artist.”

I slow down as my mother replies. “Hopefully, I’ll get to meet her one of these days.”

“She is a lovely person, genuine and truly nice. But, still, I worry about her sometimes – she’s been sort of unlucky in love, and I wish she would find someone.”

That stops me just as I’m about to walk into the room.

“Yes, I remember you saying something about that,” my mother answers as I hear her get out the coffee cups. “What happened there?”

Silvia sighs. “There was a relationship a long time ago, and it ended very badly. She was heartbroken. And ever since then…nada.”

My mother tsks. “That’s a shame.”

“Yes. I keep hoping for her. She deserves it.”

I feel my heart beating hard in my chest at this new information, and suddenly a few things make a lot more sense – why Maite has never mentioned anyone in her life, and why, for all her friendliness and positive outlook and the time we’ve spent together talking, a certain part of her has always seemed a little closed off.

I walk into the kitchen with the dishes and set them down by the sink.

“Silvia, is that true?” I ask. “What you said about Maite?”

Silvia looks up from the dessert she’s putting on a plate.

“¿Qué?”

“What you said about…her being heartbroken.”

Silvia opens her mouth, but before she can answer, my mother interrupts.

“Don’t be nosy, Camino,” she admonishes, pouring coffee into cups. It takes everything I have not to roll my eyes and ask her what _she_ was just being a moment ago. But Silvia puts her arm around my shoulder.

“It was a long time ago,” she says. “And unfortunately, it happens to all of us once or twice. No one is immune to heartbreak.”

I nod slowly. “What happened?”

It somehow feels very important to know. But I’m not going to get any answers tonight.

“Camino, basta,” my mother interjects. “Come on, help me carry this coffee out.”

I sigh and grab a few cups, and follow Silvia and my mother out of the kitchen.

\--------------------------------------------------

The next day, I’m sitting at Maite’s drafting table, working on balance, outlining a sculpture of a Greek god’s head that is sitting a few feet away from me.

I hold up my pencil in front of me toward the sculpture and close one eye, determining the quadrant for each section of the face.

Maite is sitting off to my side, molding some clay, though I can’t tell yet what it’s going to be. I see her looking at me for a moment from the corner of my eye before turning her attention back to what she’s doing.

“¿Cómo vas?” she asks.

I turn toward her, the corner of my mouth lifting up. “No, no, you can’t see it,” I return quickly, and Maite smiles as she kneads the clay.

“Así me gusta. No debes mostrar un trabajo si no está terminado.”

My smile widens at her teasing tone as I look back down at my sketch, adding some shading.

“I’m only doing what I was taught – I’m working on patience,” I say, with a deferential nod of my head in her direction.

“Ya veo ya,” Maite replies with an open smile. A few seconds later I see the fingers of her right hand tap briefly against the clay she is working, and I try to work out the meaning of what is clearly the nervous habit I’ve observed on occasion when she continues, her voice more serious. “Estás avanzando mucho, Camino. Cada día me sorprendes con tu talento.”

I can only stare at her for a second, both surprised at the unexpected praise and at the way her eyes seem to be searching mine.

“¿De veras?” I ask.

Maite nods. “No se cual sera el resultado, pero…te felicito.”

I place my hands in my lap and let her words sink in, her warm praise washing over me.

“Gracias. Sus palabras son muy importantes para mí,” I say softly.

Maite holds my gaze for a moment, and then it drops off to the side and then back to the clay in front of her.

Feeling slightly unsettled, I return my attention to my sketch, but after a moment, I look up again.

“Oh, by the way, I had dinner at my mother’s house last night, and Silvia and Pepa were there. Silvia said to say hello.”

Maite smiles. “Oh, how nice! I haven’t seen them in a while. I really should call Silvia. They’re doing well?”

I nod. “They are. It was really good to see them. Pepa cracks me up – she’s always tormenting Silvia.”

Maite laughs. “Silvia needs it. Pepa is good for her.”

I nod again in agreement as I look down and continue drawing. “It’s funny, you wouldn’t think they’d be a good match at all, but there’s something about them that just works.”

“Sí, es verdad. Ellas son muy afortunadas.”

I wait for a second, and then I don’t know what possesses me, but I suddenly turn back toward Maite.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Maite continues to press her fingers into the clay. “Sure, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to answer it.”

That stops me, and I fall silent, unsure. She looks up at me.

“Ask away,” she encourages with a look that tells me she was teasing.

“I…well…” Maite looks at me expectantly. “…I overheard Silvia mention something about you. A…a past relationship.”

The curiosity falls away from Maite’s face, replaced by something that looks like pain and regret, and I immediately feel I’ve overstepped an invisible line I wasn’t supposed to cross. I stand up and walk toward her.

“God, I’m sorry, Maite. I didn’t mean to upset you. Forget it, it’s none of my business.”

“No, no pasa nada. Afortunadamente, fue hace muchísimo tiempo. I was just a girl, really.”

I stand quietly, not exactly sure what to say.

“And…I don’t know what else Silvia said, but it…it did not end well,” Maite continues after a moment.

I watch Maite’s face as her expression changes to one of melancholy. I take a small step toward her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up something uncomfortable.”

Maite looks past me to the far side of the room.

“It’s just something I don’t talk about very much. Not very many people know about it, to be honest.”

I shift my weight from one foot to the other.

“Is it something …I don’t know, you _do_ want to talk about it?” I ask. “I’m a pretty good listener. If…if you want to.” I cannot seem to find the right words for this situation, and I know I’m floundering, but maybe the reason she doesn’t talk about it is that she thinks no one is interested.

Maite’s eyes flick up to mine before shaking her head slightly.

“Cada historia de amor es un mundo y un día te lo contare en detalle. But not today. For now, let’s leave it at what you heard – a failed relationship, nothing more.”

“Pero entonces, ¿es verdad?”

Maite offers me a sad smile.

“Sí, claro, pero no toda la verdad. Esa prefiero reservármela.” Her eyes take on a wistful, far-off look, and I want so much to do something about the pain I see in her eyes.

“I can’t imagine anyone wanting to break up with you. You’re amazing, Maite.” I don’t know quite where the words come from, but as I say them, I know I mean them one hundred percent. If I’ve learned anything the last few months, it’s that Maite is special, and I feel incredibly lucky that she is in my life. And whoever was insane enough to leave her certainly didn’t deserve her.

At my words, Maite’s eyes lift to mine, dark and searching. At last she gives a small shrug.

“No seré la primera ni la última.” She takes a deep breath. “But do you know what’s important? That we move on from things like that. That we remain true to ourselves and find our place in the world. And not to be scared of failure – we learn as much or more from bad experiences as we do from good ones.”

I frown. “Eso dicen.”

Maite seems to recover a bit and gives me a smile. “Y es así. You’re young. Don’t worry, you’ll learn it’s all true soon enough.”

I sigh. “I guess. And…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up something painful. And I want to be clear…Silvia wasn’t gossiping or anything. I just think she cares a lot about you.”

Maite nods. “I know she does.”

I start to turn to sit back down when Maite catches me by the wrist. I turn, surprised.

“Thank you for offering to listen,” she says. “It was very kind.”

I can only nod slowly because Maite continues to hold onto my wrist, and I suddenly am hyper aware of how close she is to me, and the warmth of her fingers against my skin, and the rather insane desire I’m feeling to turn my wrist so I can grasp her hand in mine. And I don’t even sort of know what do with the confusion I’m feeling right now.

I swallow. “You’re welcome. We’re friends, right? Friends listen to each other,” I manage.

Maite nods and finally lets go and gestures toward the drafting table.

“You’d better get back to work before you have to go,” she says, and she turns her attention back to the clay in front her.

My eyes linger on Maite a moment before I walk back to my drawings. With the fingers of my other hand, I brush my wrist where she held it, feeling the ghost of her touch as I sit back down.

\--------------------------------------------------

“Camino, are you listening to me?”

Ildefonso’s voice snaps me out of my train of thought.

I glance up and across the table at him.

“Hmmm, what?”

Ildefonso shakes his head. “You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you? You were a million miles away just now.”

I would like to deny it, but it’s true.

Ildefonso and I are out at one of our favorite restaurants, a little Italian place close to his apartment, and this was supposed to be our reward for getting through a hard week. I had a couple tests I was nervous about that I actually think I ended up doing well on, and Ildefonso had finally turned in his mechanical engineering paper he’d been working on for weeks.

I smile sheepishly. “Lo siento. I was just…lost in thought.”

My boyfriend nods. “That much I could see. Everything okay?”

I nod back. “Yeah, of course. It’s just…well, you know, it’s just been a long week.”

Ildefonso smiles. “It really has. Come on, let’s figure out what we want to order. I’m starving.”

We both stare at the menu for a few seconds, and then place our orders with the waiter. I take a sip of the red wine in front of me, and then smile across the table.

“Now, tell me again what you were saying. Something about your Chemistry professor?”

Ildefonso’s eyebrows lift in amusement.

“So you did hear some of it.”

I roll my eyes. “Just start at the beginning.”

This time, I do my best to follow along with my boyfriend’s story. But we’re not half through his recounting of a disastrous lab experiment when his voice fades into the background, and my mind, like it’s been doing for several days now, goes back to my last conversation with Maite – the look in her eye when I brought up the past relationship, the sadness I could clearly see, the genuine gratitude she expressed at my offer to listen, and the warmth of her hand clasped around my wrist.

I’m chewing on my lip and staring at my wine glass before I suddenly realize my dinner companion has fallen silent.

I pause for a second, delaying the inevitable, before I look up rather guiltily.

Ildefonso is staring at me, his expression not so amused this time.

I reach across the table to lay my hand on his.

“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,” I say.

Ildefonso shakes his head.

“Is my story boring you that much?”

“No, no,” I assure him, “It has nothing to do with your story. I just have…things on my mind.”

He sighs. “Do you want to tell me about them?”

I hesitate and then decide honesty might be best.

“It’s….it’s probably nothing, but I had a kind of…awkward conversation with Maite the other day. And I don’t feel great about it.”

Well, it’s mostly the truth.

“Why was it awkward?”

I take a deep breath. “I asked her something I probably shouldn’t have. Something that was really none of my business, and I should have just kept my mouth shut. And now I’m worried that it’s made things weird.”

Ildefonso frowns. “What could you have possibly asked her that would make things weird?”

I shake my head. “Just something that, now that I think about it, I didn’t have any right to ask. And now she probably thinks I’m really nosy and can’t mind my own business.”

“I’m sure that’s not the case. Did you apologize?”

“Yeah, of course, right away.”

“Well, then, there you go. I’m sure it’s fine. And you’ve spent a lot of time telling me that how kind and understanding Maite is. I seriously doubt she’s going to hold one small question against you.”

I shrug. “Maybe. I still want to kick myself.”

Our food arrives at that moment, and we pause as the waiter sets our dishes down.

“Camino,” Ildefonso says, this time reaching over to grasp my hand briefly. “It’s just a mistake. Everyone makes them. I’m sure Maite has already forgotten all about it. So just…don’t worry about it. Let’s enjoy our dinner. It looks delicious.”

I sigh. “Tienes razón. I’m sorry, I’m worrying too much.”

Ildefonso smiles at me. “No te preocupes. I’m always here to listen.”

I smile back. “Me too. Really this time! Keep telling me about the lab experiment.”

This time when he starts talking, I make sure to pay strict attention, following every word and asking questions. The rest of the meal is spent in pleasant conversation.

When we finish, we pay the bill, and walk out into the chill of the evening. I shiver, and Ildefonso puts his arm around my shoulder.

“Hey, you want to come hang out for a while? Watch a movie or something?” he asks.

My immediate reaction surprises even me as I shake my head.

“I can’t. I have to be up early tomorrow. I promised Emilio I’d help him with something at the bar first thing in the morning, and then I’m due at Maite’s. I’m sorry.”

And while that is absolutely the truth, it’s not all of it, but there is no possible way I can tell my boyfriend that something in me doesn’t particularly want to hang out tonight.

Ildefonso’s hopeful face falls, and I instantly feel bad because we truly have not spent a lot of time together in the last few weeks.

“Te echo de menos,” he says.

“Lo sé, lo siento. I will make it up to you. Pronto, te lo prometo. Pero no puedo esta noche.”

I see something briefly pass through his eyes, but it’s gone almost immediately, and he nods.

“Of course, it’s fine. Entiendo. Let me walk you to the metro.”

Ildefonso takes my hand and we walk the couple blocks to the station. He leans down to kiss me goodbye, which I return quickly, and then I head down the steps for the ride home.

When I get back to the house, I wave hello to Cinta and my brother who are watching a movie in the living room, and head quickly up to my bedroom. I sit down on the edge of my bed and run my hands over my face. I take a deep breath and release it, trying to calm down the jittery feeling that doesn’t seem to want to leave me alone.

Neither do the flashes of images that keep popping up in my mind. I see Ildefonso’s hurt expression as I let him down and his attempt to give me a proper goodnight kiss. But over those images is Maite molding clay, the surprised look she gave me when I told her I couldn’t imagine anyone leaving her, and the press of her fingers closed around my wrist.

I clench my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut. I take a deep, calming breath and open my eyes to reach for my sketchbook, hoping that drawing might restore some of my equilibrium. Pencil in hand, I feel better, but it is not ten minutes later, when I realize what I am drawing, that I stop, and toss the notebook to the side. Standing up, I change into some comfy clothes, and head downstairs to join Cinta and Emilio, hoping whatever they’re watching will provide the distraction I need.


	7. Maite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, Maitiners! 🥳
> 
> Let's leave 2020 in the dust, welcome 2021, and focus on much better things to come! And what better way to start it off than a little fic update to check in with Maite. 
> 
> Cheers! 🥂

When Camino walks into my studio early Saturday morning, I do my very best to ignore the immediate rush of excitement I feel, as if my brain seems determined to remind me how happy I am lately when this young woman is around.

“Hola,” she greets me as she walks through the door and hangs up her coat.

“Hola,” I say, glancing up before returning to the sketch I’m working on, gluing my eyes resolutely to the figure on the page. “There’s coffee in the thermos if you want some. And yes, it’s got cream in it already.”

In my periphery, I see Camino veer toward the table with the thermos, and I hear the liquid being poured in the extra mug I placed beside it.

As she approaches, I give up my internal battle and look up, right into her bright brown eyes that seem endlessly inquisitive.

I clear my throat. ”¿Cómo estas?” 

“Muy bien. Pero un poco cansada. It was a late night at the bar last night. And we had a few patrons who, let’s just say…didn’t want to leave.”

I lift my eyebrows, slightly amused, as she stops in front of my drafting table.

“Does that happen often?”

Camino shrugs, sipping at the coffee.

“Sometimes. We try our best not to overserve anyone, but we have a new bartender, and he wasn’t paying as much attention as he should have been.”

“So what did you do?”

“Had our bouncer wait with them outside until their Uber arrived. The fresh air was good for them. And it didn’t hurt that our bouncer is built like a small mountain.”

She glances down at what I’m drawing.

“¿Ya está trabajando? Aún es muy temprano. I expected to find you half-awake with your coffee, reading on the couch.”

I smile at her teasing.

“Well, a friend of mine is writing a children’s book, and he asked me to do some sketches so he can show a potential publisher. I haven’t spent as much time on it as I should, and I not only feel like a bad friend, but I’m hoping if he likes it, it might turn into something more.”

Camino studies the sketch.

“Es preciosa.” She reaches for the paper and turns it toward herself to look at it fully. “Ojalá dibujara así algún día.”

I pull my hands back into my lap.

“Bueno, es cuestión de tiempo,” I answer, “You have the talent and the eagerness to learn. The rest is just time and practice.”

Camino groans. “You make it sound so easy.”

I give her a chiding look. “Al contrario. Es muy difícil. And it takes lots of patience.”

Camino makes a face at me. “I was afraid you’d say that. It’s not my strong suit.”

I laugh. “Lo sé. But that’s the reality.”

Camino sighs dramatically, but she’s smiling, and she turns to grab her robe off the hook and starts to walk back to get her latest canvas.

“Hold on a second,” I say, stopping her. She turns back around. “Before you get started today, I want to talk to you about something.”

Camino immediately looks curious.

“What is it?” she asks, walking back toward me.

“Well,” I put down my pencil that I’d been idly playing with, “I had sort of loosely organized your classes in a certain way, based on how most of my students progress, but you’re moving far faster than I expected, Camino. Remarkably so. Y pienso que estás lista para trabajar con un modelo real.”

Camino’s eyebrows rise and she immediately looks skeptical.

“¿Pintar una persona?”

“Sí. Creo que estás lista.”

Camino bites her lip and shakes her head slightly.

“No sé. Aún me parece muy complicado. No creo que esté preparada.”

“Yo creo que estás preparada para eso y para mucho más.”

Camino is still looking at me with a very dubious expression.

I smile at her.

“Camino, I promise I’m not asking you for the Mona Lisa. We’re just going to try it. And to make it easier for you, I’m going to suggest picking someone whose features and characteristics are already familiar to you.”

Camino’s eyebrows furrow and she glances down, but then quickly looks back up at me, straight in my eyes.

“Like you?”

My mind goes blank for a second, because of all the reactions I thought I might get, that certainly wasn’t one of them, and my brain scrambles for an appropriate response that isn’t a variation of _Where would you like me to sit?_

After a pause that almost becomes awkward, I settle for laughing lightly. “I’m flattered, but perhaps someone you’ve known for a little longer. I was thinking more along the lines of…your mother?”

Camino looks surprised.

“My mother?”

“Your mother. You’ve told me before that she’s worried about your interest in art and how you intend to support yourself with it. I thought it might be an excellent opportunity to show her your skills so far.”

Camino takes a deep breath.

“She’s so busy. I don’t know when I’d get her to sit still long enough to draw something. Or if she’d even agree.”

“Camino, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about you so far, it’s that when you put your mind to something, you find a way to achieve it.”

She finally nods slowly.

“I can’t promise anything, but I will try.”

“Bueno. That’s all I ask. And maybe, if it goes well, you could give it to her as a gift.”

Camino considers my suggestion.

“Hmm, she might actually like that. She’s done so much for Emilio and me, it would be nice if I could give her a little something to say thank you.”

I clap my hands together lightly.

“¡Excelente! Primero tienes que hacer algunos bocetos y después pasarlo al lienzo. But for now, just concentrate on the sketches. And then we’ll worry about the rest.”

Camino nods enthusiastically, and I can see the idea is catching on with her.

“I’ll start working on it as soon as I can.”

I smile, pleased my idea has been so well-received. And Camino smiles back widely before turning to get her latest canvas from the back of the room.

\----------------------------------------------------

When Camino arrives at my studio a few days later, she’s got her sketchbook tucked under her arm, and she’s grinning from ear to ear. Against my will, my eyes also register her flushed cheeks and hair falling naturally down her back.

Pushing unhelpful thoughts firmly out of the way, I stop what I’m doing and cross my arms.

“And why do you look like the cat that’s swallowed the canary, may I ask?”

Her smile only gets wider as she barely shrugs out of her coat before grabbing her sketchbook and coming toward me.

“I did it,” she declares happily. “I somehow managed to sketch my mother.”

I laugh. “And you didn’t think you’d get her to sit still. How did you manage it?”

“Well,” she shrugs, “In truth, I didn’t. But I always have an extra sketchbook at the bar, and when it wasn’t busy, I just watched her and did what I could.”

I tilt my head at her.

“See? I told you’d figure out a way.”

She grins again and lays her sketchbook on the small table in front of me and flips it open.

I look down and get my first true look at Felicia Pasamar.

Silvia told me a bit about her, of course, and I have pieced together more information from Camino, but this is the first time I’m actually putting together physical characteristics with what I know of the woman.

“What do you think?” Camino asks, shifting to stand directly next to me, her shoulder brushing against mine.

I swallow hard and study the sketch in front of me.

The first impression I get is one of sharp angles and distinct features, in a way that makes me think this woman is tall, despite only being able to see her head and neck. I see a long forehead and high cheekbones, piercing eyes that immediately speak of intelligence, but behind which clearly sits a steely resolve. Her hair is pulled back in a tidy, no-nonsense bun, and I quickly guess it is because that’s the easiest way to manage it while she works. And yet, it hints at a certain femininity – rather than crop her hair short, she chooses to simply pin it out of her way. I take in the haughty arch of her eyebrows and the slim nose, and then my eyes land on her mouth. Camino has drawn just the hint of a smile on her mother’s face, and I somehow get the feeling that this is not the most natural of expressions for her, but that when it does appear, it is genuine.

The overall effect of the portrait is solid and it definitely tells a story from the artist’s point of view. Frankly, I am more than a little surprised at its depth given the short of amount of time in which it’s been completed.

I answer Camino’s question, still taking in the details of the portrait. “La verdad es que estoy impresionada. Por lo rápida que ha sido y…por la calidad de tus apuntes.”

I look up in time to see Camino’s pleased smile as she turns toward me more fully.

“So you like it? It’s good?”

“Very good, Camino. I have never met your mother, obviously, but I almost feel like I have now. I don’t know if you realize it, but your portrait tells a story. I can very much feel the love you have for your mother here, the respect, but I can also tell your relationship with her is…complicated. That it is sometimes tough to negotiate.”

Camino looks at me in surprise. She glances at her sketch and then back at me.

“I wasn’t even…you got that from this drawing?”

I nod slowly. “I did.”

She stares back down at her mother’s face and crosses her arms. “I’m not sure I even knew I was saying those things,” she says softly. I watch her as tears unexpectedly well up in her eyes. “Yes. What you said, all that is true.”

Her voices hitches slightly, and without thinking, I place my hand on her back, rubbing comforting circles.

“Sometimes our art says the things we don’t want to say. Or can’t. Or the things we don’t even realize we need to say. And that’s okay. In fact, that’s the beauty of it.”

Camino takes a shaky breath.

“But shouldn’t I have known?”

My hand stills on her back, but I don’t move it, and unfortunately I am not unaware of the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her sweater, but I continue.

“Camino, part of the excitement of art is in its ability to surprise us. And everyone always assumes that the point is to surprise the spectator. But I’ve always thought that it is equally, if not _more_ , exciting when it surprises the artist. Between intention and the finished product – that is often where the true magic lies.”

Camino lifts her eyes to mine, still a little watery.

“Me gusta eso.”

I wink at her. “A mi también.”

“Gracias.”

Camino smiles at me, and I return it as I nod, and her eyes look seriously into mine for a second or two. But then I clear my throat and force myself to take a couple steps back, reluctantly dropping my hand, putting some much-needed distance between us as I silently admonish myself.

_Maite, for God’s sake._

I make a show of clapping my hands together.

“Creo que estás preparada para pintarlo al óleo.”

Camino’s tentative smile turns much larger as she hastily swipes at her eyes.

“¿En serio? No puedo esperar.”

I return her smile, back on solid ground. “Why don’t you pick out a canvas, and you can get started.”

I watch as she walks toward the blank canvases stacked to the side of my drafting table and see her reach for one of the bigger ones. I chuckle.

“I admire your ambition, Camino, but maybe something a little smaller to start. Something you will be able to finish in a few sessions. No quieres correr antes de empezar a andar.”

At that, Camino laughs as she picks up a smaller canvas and turns to me.

“My mother said I never walked. That when I figured out how to stand, I just took off running.”

I sigh, amused. “Why does that not surprise me?”

She takes the canvas and props it up on the easel.

“I think I was just so excited to be a part of the world. Like I’m excited to try this. Painting just makes me happier than anything in the world.”

I nod. “Y la pasión es fundamental para crear una obra de arte, pero hay que ir paso a paso. ¿De acuerdo?”

Camino nods back in a way that tells me it’s not the first time she’s heard something along those lines, and I laugh.

“It’s not so bad, I promise. Remember the goal – if you have solid technique underneath you, eventually you can do anything you want…and as fast or slow as you want too. But let’s not cut corners, okay?”

Camino props up her sketch next to her and picks up a pencil.

“De acuerdo. I promise.”

\----------------------------------------------------

“So, are you interested?” I ask over my shoulder as I move a couple easels to the far side of the room. I realize artists’ studios are supposed to be creatively messy, but even I have to admit, things were starting to get a little out of hand, and I’m attempting to do some organizing.

“When is the opening again?” Sophie asks from where she’s lounging on the couch.

I gesture toward the coffee table in front of her. 

“Alicia wrote it all down on that mock-up of her invitation. In a couple months, I think?”

Sophie picks up the indicated paper and studies it.

One of our former colleagues who left last year to start her own art gallery has finally gotten her space settled the way she wants it, and has invited many of the art professors at the school to be a part of her grand opening exhibit to highlight art being done by those in academia.

Sophie shrugs and nods.

“Sure, why not? Might be fun, and I’d love to help out Alicia. She deserves it.”

I stack some blank canvases next to the spare easels.

“That’s what I thought too. When I spoke to her, she loved the idea of having you contribute a couple pieces, so I said I’d ask. And I know you’ve got some terrific pieces you’ve been hoarding.”

Sophie gives me a look. “I’ve been doing no such thing. They’re just not ready yet.”

I pick up a stack of questionable paint brushes and start examining them, picking out the ones that have seen better days. I raise my eyebrows at my friend.

“They’re ready, and you’re stalling. Time to push those sculptures out of the nest. Carpe diem!”

Sophie sighs. “I much prefer when I’m pushing you into things you don’t want to do instead of vice versa.”

I laugh and drop a handful of paintbrushes into the trash.

“I’m sure you do.”

Sophie glances back down at the paper she’s holding.

“It says here that she’s also including student art in the exhibit?”

“Hmm?” I say, eying a pile of sketches I haven’t touched in months and trying to decide if I want to go through them. “Oh, yeah, she is. I guess the idea is to juxtapose teacher/student art. Kind of an ode to art education.” I settle on making a neater stack out of the pile of paper and set it aside. You never know when an idea will come back to you.

“So why don’t you see if Alicia will accept one of your students?” Sophie asks as she stands.

I grunt, shoving an old chaise lounge I somehow acquired into the corner. It seems to wander all over the room without my consent, and I don’t know why I keep it – it’s not the most comfortable thing in the world. Yet somehow, it seems to belong in this space, and so it keeps earning stays of execution.

“Sophie, you know I have mostly first years this semester. And not that their work isn’t important, but I can’t say that I have anyone who is outshining the rest.”

“What about Camino?”

I straighten and turn sharply toward my friend, who has lifted up the cover on the portrait of Camino’s mother and is peering at it with interest.

“Sophie!” I admonish.

She glances up. “What?”

“That’s not finished,” I say, walking toward her and covering the canvas back up.

Sophie rolls her eyes.

“Maite, this rule you have about not seeing paintings until they’re finished is insane.”

I press my lips together.

“I prefer to think of it as a charming artistic quirk.”

Sophie sighs. “Well?”

“Well, what?” I deflect, moving Camino’s canvas away from Sophie.

“Maite,” she says, pointing at the easel, “That is good. Really good. You were right, she’s talented. Why don’t you see if Alicia thinks she would be a good fit?”

“Sophie, she’s not even in the program yet.”

I hear Sophie’s loud sigh.

“Um, this thing,” she replies, waving the paper she’s still holding, “Says nothing about it being a requirement that the student attends a specific school. Just that they’re a student.”

I turn with my hands on my hips. I take a couple steps toward Sophie and pluck the paper out of her hands.

“I will think about it. Why does it matter to you anyway?”

Sophie shrugs nonchalantly.

“I just think that my best friend should not only showcase her talent as an artist, but as a teacher as well, since she’s really good at both. Y qué oportunidad perfecta.”

I smile sweetly at her.

“And _I_ think that _my_ best friend should stop worrying so much about her last exhibit and put her sculptures into the world again because they are tremendous.”

Sophie makes an annoyed face.

“It seems we’ve reached an impasse.”

I lift my eyebrows.

“Seems we have. And while we’re contemplating it, maybe you could be useful and help me move some of these bigger paintings to the back? I want to take advantage of this space up here – it gets the most light.”

Sophie nods. “Sure.”

We are silent for a few minutes as we pass back and forth with the canvases. But as I’m carefully setting down a landscape I’m still working on, I hear “Oh, Maite,” from the front of the studio and I belatedly want to kick myself because I know what Sophie has found, and I turn slowly, and wait for the inevitable.

Sophie is staring down at the one painting that I have truly never been able to finish, the one that seems to elude me no matter what I do.

I walk toward Sophie and she looks up at me with sadness in her eyes.

“Oh, my friend,” she says quietly, and slides her arm around my shoulder. “Isn’t time to let it go?”

I know I should. I know it. And yet, I cannot. It sits in my heart like lead, and sometimes the pain it represents feels as fresh as it did so many years ago. As much as I know I should simply get rid of it, I keep it as a reminder; as a warning.

I lift my shoulders helplessly.

“No puedo,” I tell her. “I just…can’t.”

Sophie pulls me in towards her and envelops me in a hug.

“Está bien,” she tells me. “You’ll do it when the time is right.”

I stand in Sophie’s comforting embrace for a moment and then I pull away. I bend down, pick up the painting and move it to the far wall, propping it on one of the free easels. I drop a cloth over it.

“Will there be a right time?” I muse, almost to myself.

“There will be, you know,” Sophie says.

I smile as I turn toward her. “How do you know?”

“Te lo dije,” she says, tapping the side of her head. “I know things.”

I laugh despite myself, and we finish clearing the front area together.

Later, after Sophie has left and my studio is looking a little less like a tornado has come through it, I sit on the couch, my gaze going to the far corner and the covered painting sitting on the easel. I sigh and close my eyes, head dropping back against the cushion. For once, I allow memories to surface, the ones that I mostly keep locked away. They roll through me, feeling immediate and tangible, and I let them because sometimes you have to remember. 

But when I at last lift my head and open my eyes again, they land on the invite from Alicia, and I pick it up. I stare at it for some time, the internal battle within me to playing out to its foregone conclusion. I shake my head, and despite what I know is a dangerous choice, reach for my phone.


	8. Camino

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay, I know it's been a hot second. I don't know how time slips away in the middle of a pandemic, but somehow it still does. 
> 
> Also, you can blame this chapter because it just refused to cooperate for a really ridiculously long time. Or maybe my muse was just on vacation and refusing to go back to work (I know the feeling). 
> 
> But anyway...let's check in with Camino, and see how our impulsive young artist is faring....

“So, anyway, this former professor at the college now has a gallery of her own, and she’s putting together an exhibit. She asked a bunch of the professors at the university to contribute, and she’s looking for student art too!”

Ildefonso and I are walking in Real Jardín Botánico Alfonso XIII after meeting for lunch. We have the gardens largely to ourselves, and I’m enjoying stretching my legs after being in class all morning.

“And Maite asked if I would like to contribute the portrait of my mother that I’m working on. And she thinks I might even have enough time to paint another piece! I mean, it’s insane, right? An exhibit? Something I’ve painted hanging next to something of Maite’s?!”

I couldn’t quite believe it when I got off the phone with Maite. At first, I just didn’t believe her and thought it was some sort of joke, but she assured me several times she was absolutely serious. And then I started to feel jittery at the thought, that something I painted might be seen in public, and what’s more, next to whatever unbelievable piece Maite contributes.

But still, what an amazing opportunity, and I couldn’t wait to tell everyone.

I hear a vague sound next to me, and I look up at Ildefonso. He’s looking straight ahead up the path, and doesn’t seem nearly as excited as I expected him to be.

“Hey, are you okay?”

He glances over at me.

“Yeah, fine,” he gives me a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “An exhibit. That sounds really cool. Um, when it is?”

“In a couple months,” I say, frowning slightly at the flatness of his tone, but when he nods, I continue. “So I’m going to have to work even harder to get two pieces finished. Luckily, I can go to the studio whenever and I’ll just go over there when I’m not in class, and I’m sure I can talk Emilio into covering a few shift for me….”

Ildefonso turns toward me abruptly.

“¿Qué? Camino, ¿en serio?” he says, irritation clear in his voice.

I look at him and see the hard set of his jaw.

“What do you mean, ‘seriously?’ Of course I’m serious. This is going to take a lot of work. I want to feel like I’m putting my best work in the exhibit. It’s my first chance to see what people think of my painting.”

Ildefonso sighs.

“And what about me?” he asks, coming to a halt.

I stop, too, hearing the edge in his question.

“What about you?” I ask carefully.

“At what point are you going to spend some time with me? Or should I just make an appointment for some time after the exhibit?”

“What are you talking about?” I ask. I would like to say that I’m surprised at Ildefonso’s question, but in truth, I am not, and I probably should only be surprised that it’s taken until now for him to bring up this topic.

And from the look he gives me, he knows I’m stalling as well.

“Camino, have you not noticed we’ve barely seen each other recently? It seems like every time I ask you to do something, you’re busy.”

“That’s not fair,” I reply, somewhat defensively, “I’ve got a lot going on – school, the bar, my jobs on campus…”

“That’s not it, and you know it,” he says, looking straight at me. “Every spare second you seem to have, you’re running to Maite’s studio. Evenings you’re not working? Maite’s studio. Saturday mornings? Maite’s studio. You get a night off from the bar? Maite’s studio. Maybe I should just go there if I want to see you.”

_No, not there._

I cringe inwardly that that is my first thought – that I don’t want him or anyone else near that space. It is a space that in my mind has come to be occupied by two people only.

“Ildefonso,” I say out loud, “You know how important this opportunity is for me. How lucky I am to get to study with someone of Maite’s talent. How am I not supposed to take advantage of every second of it?”

Ildefonso makes a frustrated sound and crosses his arms.

“I’m not saying don’t take advantage of it. Pero hay otras cosas en la vida, Camino. Tu novio, por ejemplo.”

“I thought my boyfriend supported me in this,” I shoot back, and I hear my voice rising.

He cocks his head at me.

“Don’t do that,” he says, “Don’t make this out like I’m the bad guy. I _do_ support you, and you know it. But I also want to see my girlfriend sometimes. But I’m beginning to think you don’t feel the same way.”

Ildefonso’s words cut into me more than I care to admit. Because the truth is, I haven’t seen much of him lately. What he is saying is correct – I have been going to Maite’s studio more and more. It is increasingly becoming the only place I want to be, one of the only places where I feel completely myself. It is a place where there are no demands on me, apart from the ones Maite makes in the course of whatever I am working on, and there I can get lost in this thing I love, standing in front of the canvas, working on a lesson, soaking up knowledge. Even making mistakes feels freeing – when I make them, they never feel like mistakes because Maite is right there, showing me an alternative, pointing out what technique I can use the next time or how to make my point more effectively with shadow rather than light.

I have lost count of the hours we have spent in that studio together, happily in pursuit of a common passion. Every time I walk in, a calm instantly washes over me. There is something about being there with Maite that fills me with a sense of belonging. I don’t have to explain to her what painting means to me – she just knows. I don’t have to tell her if I’ve had a bad day – she can see it on my canvas, and either leaves me be or gently redirects me. I don’t have to explain why I sometimes show up at weird hours, long past the point of texting her beforehand – Maite just smiles and nods at me as I put on my robe and get my easel. Being there is a balm for the chaos of my life in a way I’ve never experienced before.

But it has also left me to wonder if I’ve been unfair to other people in my life, particularly my boyfriend, who really _has_ been supportive of this endeavor.

The same person who, right now, is looking at me with hurt and confusion in his eyes.

I shake my head.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ildefonso. Of _course_ I want to see you,” I say, attempting to lay my hand on his arm. He steps back just enough to avoid it.

“You could have fooled me. I hardly hear from you these days. You barely call or text. Before today, I can’t remember the last time we had a meal together. And,” Ildefonso hesitates for a moment before continuing, “Camino, this isn’t just about the painting. I get the feeling there is something else going on. What is it? Just talk to me. Whatever it is, we can tackle it together.”

“Nothing is going on,” I reply immediately. “I’m just really busy and I feel like I’m getting pulled in a million different directions.”

Ildefonso shakes his head.

“You’re not being truthful. I know you’re not,” he says, looking me straight in the eye.

I feel myself getting angry, something that is far easier to do than acknowledge what he’s saying. Because what he is saying hits far closer to home than I’m willing to say right now.

“What do you want from me?” I demand. “I’m one person. I go to school, I work, and I’m finally, _finally_ getting to paint in a way I never have before. And, yes, it takes time. I’m sorry, but it does. Should I stop painting because you don’t feel I’m paying enough attention to you?”

“¡Eso no es lo que estoy diciendo! Of _course_ I don’t want you to stop painting! Jesus, Camino, I’m just asking for a little bit of your time!”

I feel the anger and confusion I’ve been feeling rising quickly to the surface, and it starts to get the better of me.

“¡Y _yo_ pido paciencia! ¡Y espacio! So I can explore this part of me! Why is that so much to ask?!”

Ildefonso stares at me, and I can see all the things mirrored in his eyes that I’m feeling – hurt, uncertainty, frustration. Doubt.

I see the muscles of his jaws working as he clenches his teeth.

“Bueno,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Bueno. ¿Quieres espacio? Te daré espacio. For your art and whatever is going on with you. Because you can tell me all you want that it’s nothing, but we’ve known each other far too long, Camino. And I think it’s more than finally getting the chance to paint. So I will leave you alone. Okay? But know this – I’m not going to wait around forever for you to figure things out. So…I’ll see you later.”

He takes a step away from me and turns on his heel, and I feel like someone is clawing at my insides.

“Ildefonso,” I call as he starts to walk away. I see his shoulders slump, and he turns back.

“Lo siento,” I say helplessly because I literally can think of nothing else to say that won’t make the situation unravel further, and I hate that I’m hurting this person who has meant so much to me for so long.

He stares at me and then nods briefly.

“Lo sé,” he says. And then I watch his retreating back as he walks away.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

It is no wonder I show up at Maite’s studio that night not in the best of moods. I more or less storm in, causing Maite to look up quickly from a clay torso she is working on.

She gives me a look as I rather forcefully shut the door and hang up my things.

“Well, hello to you too. Bad day?” she says, grabbing a towel and wiping off her hands.

I grunt as turn toward her.

“You could say that.”

She takes a couple steps toward me.

“Care to talk about it?”

I look at her and sigh.

“I don’t know. I…I had a fight with Ildefonso. And I’m not even sure about what. It was…stupid.”

Maite crosses her arms.

“Well, most fights are stupid. Come on,” she says, waving me over to the couch as I reach for my robe. “Leave that for a few minutes. Come over here and tell me what happened. You’re not going to get any painting done anyway if you’re all wound up.”

I walk over slowly and sit on the couch next to her. She waits patiently while I gather myself.

“I was telling him about the art exhibit. And I was really excited about it, and he just didn’t even seem to be listening. And so I asked him what was wrong, and suddenly he’s talking about how we never spend time together anymore and that I’m here all the time instead. And it just…escalated.” I leave out the part where Ildefonso insinuated something else was going on.

“Hmmmm,” Maite muses. “Are you mad because it’s not true? Or…because it is?”

I look up at her.

“Yo….” I start, and then my voice trails off. “No lo sé,” I admit. Maite waits as I think about it. “We haven’t seen much of each other,” I finally allow.

Maite nods. “You’ve been spending a lot of time here recently.”

I give her a small smile. “That’s what he said. But I don’t see it the same way. I feel like when I’m here, time goes so quickly or maybe I just lose track or…something.”

Maite nods again and reaches out to cover my hand with hers.

“Camino, that is what happens when you’re an artist. Hours turn into minutes. There are days you’re having breakfast at three o’clock in the afternoon because you’re so caught up in your work. And it is…intoxicating. I won’t lie about that. But it has its consequences. Sometimes, relationships with other people suffer.”

I let out a deep sigh as tears of frustration gather at the corners of my eyes.

“What am I supposed to do?”

Maite’s thumb strokes reassuringly over the back of my hand.

“You have to decide what’s important to you, what you want to prioritize. Camino, you’re a talented artist, and you can go far, but this life, it’s not for everyone. And that’s okay. There are plenty of other ways to be happy in this world.”

I look up at Maite.

“I’ve never been so happy in my life as I have these last few months,” I say softly. “Being here makes me happy.”

Maite’s hand squeezes mine and she smiles.

“I’m happy to hear that,” she says. “But really think about it, okay? It’s not a decision to make lightly.”

Maite’s hand over mine is warm and I stare at it, wishing I knew how to tell her that it doesn’t feel like the decision is mine because the last few months have felt right in such an instinctual way that I’ve never felt like anything, or _anyone_ , was missing.

What was happening?

I glance up at Maite again as she cocks her head at me with a worried expression. I nod at her slowly.

“Gracias por escuchar. Y el consejo.”

“Siempre, Camino. Somos amigas, ¿no? Someone told me recently that’s what friends do.” She winks at me and I smile a bit and nod.

“Sí, es verdad.”

“Bueno,” she says. Her hand leaves mine and before I can contemplate the odd feeling of disappointment I have at the loss of contact, she reaches behind her, grabs a tissue, and hands it to me. “Now, why don’t you grab a blank canvas and paint whatever you feel tonight.”

I dab at my eyes with the tissue and look at her, surprised.

“Shouldn’t I work on my mother’s portrait?”

Maite shakes her head.

“Not tonight. I don’t think you’re in the right headspace, and your poor mother might suffer. Sometimes it’s best to just forget everything for a little bit and do whatever you want.”

“With no technique?” I ask with a horrified tone and smiling at the same time.

“To hell with technique,” Maite grins, standing. “Paint whatever you want. In fact, I’ll do it with you. Come.”

I join Maite in picking out a blank canvas, and we both set up our easels.

Maite turns on the small radio she has to the classical station, and before long, we’re both lost in our own worlds, painting together.

My canvas turns into something abstract, dark blues and reds and purples twisted together, taking on a rather stormy aura, but it feels good to be painting with no goal in mind, no technique to master. It is just my feelings and the colors mixing together, and for a little while, the confusion of the day melts away.

Before I know it, hours have passed, and my hand is at last starting to cramp. I glance over at Maite whose attention is still on her own painting, her head tilted slightly to one side in concentration. I watch her for a few moments, and it feels a little like I’m getting the opportunity to watch a rare species in its natural habitat.

Maite looks like she belongs behind the easel, as if maybe she was born with a paint brush in her hand. Her brush stroke looks neither tentative nor forced, and her brush simply glides over the canvas. In fact, she looks as if she’d be happy to stand there for several more hours. I watch as she dabs her brush in a bit of reddish paint and flicks it deftly across the upper corner of her canvas. And then I notice the curve of her thumb through her palette as it rests gracefully against her forearm in a way I have yet to fully master, and I envy the way it simply looks like an extension of her.

Maite shifts a little, studying her painting from a slightly different angle, and I find my eyes traveling up the length of her arm, over the collar of her robe peeking out from beneath her dark hair, until they finally lift to her face…and directly into eyes staring at me with curious amusement.

Startled, I blink as my eyes meet Maite’s, and she laughs softly.

“Earth to Camino,” she says, “What are you thinking about?”

_I have absolutely no idea._

I shake my head to clear it.

“Na…nada. I just…spaced out.”

“I would say so,” she says, lowering her brush. “Have you finished?”

Still trying to gather myself, I glance at my painting and then back at her. I nod.

“I think so. Or, at least, I feel a bit better now, which I think was the point?”

I get her familiar half-smile. “If you feel better, then it’s done.”

I crane my neck toward her easel.

“Can I see what you painted?”

Maite gives me a you-know-better look. “Nope, I’m still working on it,” she says, quickly dropping a cloth over it as I take a few steps toward it.

“Maite, come _on_ ,” I reply, “I’ve barely seen anything you’ve done, except these couple pieces you’ve got hanging and those illustrations from the other day. And…well, now that torso,” I say, pointing at the clay sculpture she was working on when I walked in. “I mean, look at it, it’s so beautiful and delicate. I don’t understand why I can’t see more of your work. I know you’re an amazing artist. It would be so helpful for me to see something as you’re working on it. Please, show me one of your paintings.”

Maite seems to consider my words for a moment, but then shakes her head briefly.

“Temo defraudarte.”

The idea that she could possibly disappoint me is sheer lunacy to me, and I am certain I look at her like she’s crazy.

“Estoy segura que nunca lo hará,” I say, looking straight at her. She looks away from me, and I can see by her expression she’s wrestling with a decision. But then she takes a deep breath, presses her lips together, and shakes her head, looking back up at me.

“No, Camino. Es todavía muy pronto. Debes seguir aprendido de los grandes maestros.”

I blow out an exasperated breath.

“Maite, we’ve spent weeks with Murillo and Velázquez and Goya and El Greco and Sorolla. I understand they’re important. But I can learn so much from you too. You’re an artist working _now_ , in real time. You’re not some ancient painter from centuries ago! And isn’t studying what’s happening in the art world today just as important?”

Maite tilts her head at me.

“Yes, of course it’s important. But I thought we agreed it’s also important not to skip any steps. And all those ‘ancient painters,’ as you call them, can teach you a lot more than a few of my paintings can.”

I sigh.

“I disagree,” I say, looking slightly past my teacher.

It is then that I notice an easel behind Maite that wasn’t there the last time I was here. It is a rather large canvas – covered, as usual, with a cloth. Beneath the cloth I can just make out some of the colors, rust and beige and a darker color, maybe brown or black.

And in that moment, I don’t know what comes over me, whether it’s because I’m still upset over my fight with Ildefonso, my frustration with Maite’s continued stubborn refusal, or my increasingly confusing feelings in general, but I suddenly find myself walking past Maite, reaching for the corner of the cloth, and flinging it over the top of the canvas, revealing the bottom left corner of the painting.

Maite moves faster than I thought possible. In two swift strides, she catches my wrist firmly in her hand, exclaiming, “¡No, no lo hagas!”

Her quick action spins me toward her, and I quite unexpectedly find myself inches from Maite, our arms trapped between us, mine held tight by her fingers wrapped around my wrist.

I’ve never really understood the phrase “time stood still.” Time is a constant, and marches forever forward whether we like it or not.

Except as I stare at Maite wide-eyed, all but pressed against her, time literally seems suspended – I feel like I can see every particle of dust floating by in the space around us, I can hear each individual beat of my own pulse pounding in my ear, I can smell the faint lemon scent of whatever detergent Maite uses, and I can feel the heat of Maite’s skin at every point where it is touching mine. And while I seem to neither be able to move nor speak, I am also acutely aware of her gaze as it flicks several times between my eyes and my mouth as the air between us grows charged with a tension so sharp I can almost taste the edge of it.

Incredibly, I find myself doing the same, my eyes dropping to Maite’s slightly parted lips, and with very little thought, I lean forward very slightly. Almost imperceptibly, Maite mirrors me, barely noticeable but for the very small increase of pressure against my arm still held between us. And for a second, _a second_ , as they briefly lock onto mine, the protective veil slips from Maite’s eyes and I see a gamut of hidden emotion run through them.

I am barely breathing, and I feel like a thousand needles are pricking at my skin from inside my body, but my gaze drops and I tilt my head and press forward again ever so slightly, and –

– I see Maite’s jaw move briefly, as if she desperately wants to say something, and then I hear a long, shaky exhale as she releases my arm. She steps back, out of my personal space, and whatever hold this moment had on both of us is broken.

I lift my eyes slowly, from where they still seem to be locked on her mouth, and Maite is looking at me with a frantic panic I can see she is trying to control. I watch as her expression changes from flustered to restrained as whatever emotional gate that briefly lifted drops back into place, and she says what seems like the first words spoken in the studio for hours.

“Te ruego que no vuelvas a hacer eso.”

I can only stare at her, partly because I can barely process what just happened and partly because I know I just screwed up royally.

“Seré yo quien decida cuando te muestro mis obras,” Maite continues and I flinch. The shame at my behavior slams into me with a breathtaking force, and the only thing I now want to do is get out of here as fast as I can.

“I’m sorry,” I manage to get out as I quickly step by Maite toward the safety of the door. But I slow as I hear Maite speak again, and I can see her pull the cover back over the painting from the corner of my eye.

“Cada artista es dueño de sus propias obras y decide cuando mostrarlas. ¿De acuerdo?”

I turn, feeling more awful by the second.

“Sí, lo sé. I know, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” comes the sharp reply, and there is a hardness in her eyes when she lifts them toward me. Her right hand is resting at the top of the easel, her thumb tapping against it.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, struggling for any kind of explanation for what just happened. “I don’t…I don’t know why I did that.”

Maite stands up straighter.

“I understand you had a bad day, and I’m sorry for that, but I need you to be more careful, Camino.”

I nod quickly. “I will. I promise.”

“Muy bien. Pues….puedes marcharte. Yo tengo que seguir trabajando,” she says, vaguely motioning toward the clay bust.

If it is possible to feel worse right now, I do, dismissed so totally and completely, and I can feel my cheeks burning. But I almost don’t care right now, my desire to get out of this studio overwhelming every other feeling. I grab my coat and bag quickly.

“Hasta luego,” I mutter hastily, heading for the door.

“Hasta luego,” trails after me as I let myself out.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

When the soft knock comes at my bedroom door, I sit up from the fetal position I’ve been curled in for God knows how long.

“Come in.”

The door opens slowly, and Cinta is there holding two mugs with steam rising from them.

“Hey,” she says smiling. “I thought you might like some company. And some tea,” she offers, holding one mug out toward me.

I smile a little. “I’d love some.”

Cinta nods and walks over to the bed, handing me one of the mugs and settling herself on the edge of the mattress. I wrap my hands around the warm cup and inhale the smell – chamomile with a liberal amount of honey and a bit of whiskey, if I know my friend.

“Gracias,” I say, taking a tentative sip. The liquid is still a bit too hot, but the taste is soothing, especially after this awful day. I look up to find Cinta looking at me with an expectant expression.

“¿Qué?” I ask.

Cinta clears her throat.

“Well, I couldn’t help but notice that when you came home you looked pretty upset.”

I suppress a groan. The last thing I want to hear is that I look as awful as I feel.

“And, well,” my friend continues, “I’ve noticed that you’ve been a little…not yourself…recently. Distracted.”

 _Understatement of the year_.

I try to give Cinta a smile.

“I’m fine, really, just…really busy.”

Cinta tips her head to the side.

“I would like to think I know you a little better than that, Camino. We’ve been friends for a really long time. You’re always busy. This seems different. And I was just wondering if you want to talk about it.”

For a brief second, I consider telling her everything – the weird feelings I’ve been having recently, the fight with Ildefonso, whatever the hell just happened in the studio….But then the whole thing feels so overwhelming and I hardly even know what to say or where to begin.

I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

Cinta sighs. “Okay, if you don’t want to talk about it right now, that’s okay. But just know I’m here, anytime, if you change your mind.”

I reach over and squeeze her hand. “Gracias, Cinta. Lo aprecio mucho. De verdad.”

We finish our tea together and then Cinta says goodnight, and soon enough I’m left alone with my thoughts once more, which have been a complete mess since I got home. My mind keeps cycling through the day’s events – the disastrous talk with my boyfriend, then painting contentedly at Maite’s side, then the moment of finding myself all but pressed against her about to…to _what_?! And even that is not the most confusing part. What’s most confusing is that for one or two seconds, beneath the panic and the feeling of hot needles under my skin, everything felt profoundly… _right_ , in a way I don’t think I’ve ever experienced before.

And it makes me want to scream.

Almost growling in frustration, I get up, change into my pajamas, and go quickly through my bedtime routine before crawling under the covers. I turn off the light, grateful for the darkness, and hope that it will convince my mind it’s time to drift into blissful oblivion for a few hours.

But my mind is evidently less than interested in my suggestion, and turns instead to the one thing I’ve tried all night to avoid.

Maite’s painting.

Because as quick as Maite was to turn me away from it, my eyes were quicker, and they fully took in the corner that my ill-advised decision revealed.

I remember seeing the profile of a woman’s face with dark hair. Her features were all too familiar – Maite’s eyes, closed in repose, the angle of her cheekbones, dark hair falling across her face – except younger, less marked by experience. I could just make out the sweep of Maite’s shoulder in the bottom corner. And from the only other part I could see, she was resting against the small of another person’s back, her cheek pressed against bare skin in what was clearly an intimate position.

I feel as if I inadvertently stumbled across not just a random painting that Maite is working on, but something that speaks to the heart of who Maite is. I feel terrible that I invaded her privacy when I had absolutely no right, but I also feel a certain compelling need to understand the person on the canvas, the one whose face is peaceful and yet somehow etched with the beginning of sadness.

I rub a hand over my face, hoping that it might help erase the endless loop in which my brain is now trapped, but it does me no good. I stare up into the darkness, the image seemingly projected onto the blank canvas of the ceiling above, and I resign myself to a sleepless night.


	9. Maite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this chapter, and I should probably examine why I like torturing poor Maite the way I do, lol. But we all know she's stubborn, and while she's busy denying all her feelings, I feel compelled to provide her with Sophie. Sooo...apologies, but I just can't help it. 
> 
> Many thanks to all of you as you continue on this journey with me. I appreciate it! Stay safe and stay warm!

When Camino walks into the studio a couple days later, to say I’m not feeling myself is an understatement. I’ve slept fitfully for the last two nights, my brain insisting on replaying the incident with Camino and the painting over and over in some sort of movie stuck on repeat apparently designed to drive me insane. And the fact that I’m allowing it to get the better of me, that I am attaching much more meaning to it than is warranted, is making the whole thing even worse.

And the prospect of having her back in the studio today, of being near her, does little to calm me down. So in an effort to make sure Camino is plenty busy while she is here, I am preparing a still life arrangement for her to work on, selecting a random assortment of things around the studio, barely paying attention to what I’m choosing.

When Camino walks in, even by the way she opens the door, I can sense her caution. I look up to see her walk toward me slowly and I can see the uncertainly in her eyes.

“Buenos días,” she says almost warily.

I turn away, not quite able to look her in the eye.

“Grab your brushes and start working on this still life I’ve arranged,” I say brusquely. I cringe at how harsh my voice sounds, even to me, but just seeing her causes irritation to immediately bubble to the surface. What’s worse is that while I am angry at Camino for being so impulsive, I am even angrier at myself for allowing the whole situation to get out of hand.

Camino stares at me as she hovers for a few seconds before she reaches for her robe.

She then passes by me to get her brushes, and I stiffen, waiting for her to go by before placing some lemons next to the vase.

“El ejercicio consiste en que pintes este bodegón en tonos cálidos.” I grab a candlestick and slide it next to the lemons. I am aware that I’m putting the most random things together, and there isn’t exactly a theme here, but I have to keep moving because I cannot contemplate what happens if we’re both standing still. I feel off-balance, and I am beginning to think that keeping today’s lesson was a very bad idea.

I hear Camino gathering her brushes and I can almost feel her eyes boring into me.

“I’m sorry I was a little late,” she says tentatively, and from the tone of her voice I know she is trying hard to break through this thing sitting between us, asking me to relent, and yet something in me cannot. The instinct for protecting myself has kicked in, the thing that has kept me safe for so long, and the only thing I can do is press my lips together and stare at the still life, avoiding her gaze entirely.

She crosses my path again, and I clench my teeth as her delicate scent drifts by me. I’m immediately assaulted by the image of her mouth inches from mine, her wrist grasped firmly in my hand in such a way that I can feel her pulse beating wildly against my fingers. And I find myself holding my breath yet again as I remember the puff of her breath against my lips.

I swallow hard and turn away quickly, busying myself with grabbing a blank canvas and carrying it over to Camino, still looking anywhere but at her.

Out of my periphery, I see Camino rocking uneasily from foot to foot as I set the canvas down, and finally the uncomfortable silence is clearly too much for her.

“Lo siento,” she bursts out, her voice strained. “¿De acuerdo? I’m sorry for what happened the other day. I’m sorry for what I did, for insisting on seeing your painting. I was in such a weird mood from my fight with Ildefonso, and I know it’s not an excuse, but I just wasn’t myself, and I’m sorry.”

I finally look up at her, and her face is filled with such guilt and anxiety, that I immediately feel terrible for being so cold. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, shaking my head a bit.

“Está bien, Camino. No pasa nada,” I finally yield as I remind myself that it’s likely Camino has never intentionally tried to wrong anyone in her life, and it is not in my nature to hold grudges anyway. “Todos tenemos derecho a equivocarnos alguna vez. And as long as you didn’t do it with bad intentions, I can’t fault you for it.”

Camino shakes her head vehemently.

“No, of course not. I just…I just got carried away.”

“Muy bien. Pues entonces es asunto olvidado.”

I walk over to settle myself in the armchair, picking up a new book on Impressionism I just ordered.

“¿De veras?” Camino’s voice still sounds less than sure. I look up at her.

“Forget about it, Camino. It’s really not a big deal. I’m sorry if I was…too sensitive about it. I overreacted a bit.”

I crack open the book, hoping it’s the end of the matter and we can put it firmly behind us. But as Camino shifts behind the canvas, my eyes are pulled in her direction against my will, and find her turning back toward me yet again.

“That torso you were working on the other day, it was amazing. Sophie was right about your sculptures.”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “Never tell Sophie she is right. It immediately goes to her head.”

I get a small smile out of her and I can see her posture relax a little.

“Will you teach me how to do that?” she asks. I raise my eyebrows a bit at her.

“Todavía es muy pronto para eso. It’s a tricky thing, clay. It very rarely cooperates.”

She nods a little.

“I understand. Whenever you think I’m ready. There is nothing more important to me in this world than being in this studio with you. I want to learn everything.”

Camino begins to add color to her palette as I contemplate her words and their quiet earnestness. And despite my misgivings and very real fears, I smile slightly to myself, and return to my book.

\----------------------------------------------

“Oh, it feels good to be out of that building,” Sophie declares beside me as we stroll down the street, accentuating her point with a deep breath. The air is brisk, there aren’t too many people on the sidewalk to contend with, and I have to admit, she is right, even if I wasn’t agreeable to her suggestion right away when she showed up at my office and declared we were leaving. It’s only Wednesday, but it’s been a very long week so far, and doing something other than turning the last few days’ events over and over in my mind is a relief.

Sophie loops her arm through mine, and we spend some time peeking into storefront windows, popping into a couple, and I let myself settle into our pleasant chatter as we walk, not paying particular attention to where we’re going. Which, in hindsight, is a mistake.

“¿Tienes frío?” Sophie asks eventually, rubbing at her arms a little. “Any chance I can convince you to pop into one of these bars for a warm-up?”

Still not fully aware of my surroundings, I shrug.

“Sure, why not? Es miércoles.”

Sophie grins. “That’s my girl. Excellent attitude. Ummm…how about this place?”

I look over at the bar she’s indicating and belatedly curse myself for my lack of attention. Sophie is pointing at the sign that says, in flowing handwriting, **_Siglo Veintiuno_**. I freeze, trying to figure out just how I can get out of this without tipping my hand.

“Sophie, I don’t think so. That’s Camino’s family’s bar.”

Sophie looks surprised. “Really? Even better! Let’s go try it out!”

We’ve walked even closer to the door, enough that I can peer inside. It’s busy , but not overly so. There’s a young man behind the bar with familiar features, and I assume that’s Emilio. I see no sign of a slim figure with long hair near him, but that means very little.

I try again. “Sophie, it’s probably crawling with students. I mean, we’re not that far from school.”

Sophie gives me a look. “So?”

“So, don’t you remember how strange it was to see your teachers out in real life? Do we want to freak out our students?”

Sophie just rolls her eyes like I knew she would. “No one’s going to have a stroke because they see their professors having a glass of wine. Come _on_.”

She grabs my hand, and with no good excuses left, I find myself being dragged through the door into the warm, cheerful atmosphere of the bar.

I’m not sure what my expectations were of the bar, but it exudes the warmth of a neighborhood spot. It’s not trying hard to be super trendy or adhere to some sort of bizarre theme. Instead, it feels almost cozy with warm lighting, some booths lining the far wall, and plenty of high-top tables where people can gather to chat.

Moderately busy on a weeknight, there are still quite a few empty seats at the bar, and Sophie makes a beeline for two of them. I follow her, the knot in my stomach that started outside getting tighter.

Sophie settles into her chair happily, hanging her jacket over the back, and looks around.

“Why have we never been here before? It’s lovely!”

I sit down next to her slowly, looking around for exactly one thing. But so far, all I see is Emilio down at the other end of the bar taking some orders, and I think maybe I’ve gotten lucky tonight. I relax slightly, and I, too, take in the room more fully, nodding.

“It really is,” I agree. I also see some familiar faces at a couple of the tables, but as Sophie suggested, everyone seems to be remaining upright, and I try not to think about how ridiculous my excuse sounded.

Down at the other end of the bar, Emilio delivers a couple drinks, and then he catches sight of us when Sophie lifts her hand with a small wave. He starts walking toward us, with a smile that is distractingly familiar, when through the door at the back of the bar a figure walks out, almost colliding with him.

Emilio manages to catch Camino as she bobbles, grasping her shoulders, and despite the shot of adrenaline that courses through me immediately upon seeing her, I almost laugh because this girl’s penchant for being in a hurry is clearly not limited to painting.

I watch as Camino makes a sound of surprise and then laughs a little as her brother steadies her. He frowns at her and shakes his head a bit, but she quickly kisses him on the cheek, and he smiles affectionately. As she puts down the several bottles she was carrying on the counter, Emilio points over in our direction, and Camino’s head turns, her eyes almost instantly locking with mine.

Her surprise at seeing me is evident, but underneath that, I can easily see everything from the last few days churning in her eyes. And despite assuring her that the entire matter was forgotten, I’m not sure that either of us believes that. I press my hands into the top of the bar as she recovers and starts walking toward us.

“Hola,” she says, her voice soft, and yet somehow I hear it clearly above the general noise in the room.

I offer her a small smile. “Hola.”

“Camino!” Sophie greets her cheerfully beside me. “It’s really good to see you again! Maite tells me this is your family’s bar.”

Camino’s eyes leave mine to focus on Sophie.

“Hi, Sophie, good to see you too. Yes, this is ours.”

Sophie nods. “We were just walking by and decided to pop in. Great spot.”

“Gracias. Can I get you both something to drink?”

Sophie orders herself a white wine, and Camino turns toward me again.

“Maite?”

I swallow, because right now, the last thing I want to do is sit here and drink an entire glass of wine, but there is little I can do about it. “Do you have a Rioja?”

Camino nods. “Of course.”

“Then I will take a glass of that.”

Camino smiles and walks a few feet away to pour our glasses.

Sophie turns toward me. “Are you okay?”

I look at her. “Yeah, fine. Why?”

“You just look a little, I don’t know…off. Maybe some food? We’ve been walking a lot. ¿Quieres algo para comer? Look, I think that’s a menu up there,” she says, pointing. I follow where she’s indicating, and sure enough, there is a small board with a few items listed as the specials of the day.

While I’m reading the offerings, I see Camino making her way back toward us, two glasses of wine in her hands. She gives Sophie’s to her, and then extends her hand holding the glass of red toward me. I reach for it, and as I grab the stem of the glass, my fingers inadvertently brush against hers.

The effect is instant.

I cannot stop the shiver that runs through me like a current and my eyes fly up to Camino’s against my will. She is staring at me wide-eyed, the same expression from a few nights ago, and I see her sharp intake of breath. For a brief moment, we hold each other’s gaze, and it feels like someone has lit a fire under my skin.

It is a small miracle I do not drop the glass as Camino’s fingers slide out from under mine, and I set it down quickly in front of me so that perhaps the fact that my hand is shaking will remain unnoticed.

But I should have known better. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Sophie is observing the entire interaction with a watchful eye, and right then and there, I know that all my efforts to keep this… _thing_ …to myself have been useless, and I dread what’s coming.

But Sophie wouldn’t call me out right in front of Camino, and she smoothly glosses over the moment with redirection.

“Camino, ¿qué tal la comida aquí?” she asks. Camino almost starts at Sophie’s voice, her gaze still locked on my hand gripping the wine glass.

“¿Qué? Oh, ah, it’s very good, actually. Made all from scratch. Did you want something?”

Sophie stares up at the small board above us, and then turns to me.

“Maite? What about an order of the patatas bravas?”

I nod and smile weakly. “Sure. Sounds great.”

Sophie turns back to Camino. “We’ll do those.”

“Con alioli?”

“Por supuesto.”

When Camino turns to put the order in, I expect a full-on interrogation from my best friend, but when I sneak a glance to my left, Sophie is calmly sipping her wine. She smiles at me.

“Good wine,” she comments, “How’s yours?”

It takes me a couple seconds to realize I’m not going to be subjected to an inquisition. At least, not at the moment.

“Hmm? Oh.” I lift my glass and take a sip. The liquid hits my tongue, the full-bodied taste of cherry coming through. I lift my eyebrows.

“Quite good, actually.”

Sophie smiles and she launches into a story of her latest date with Julien, who she actually seems quite taken with. I try to listen attentively, but my eyes keep wandering toward the young woman moving behind the bar, doing my best not to notice how the simple black uniform with a silver tie seems to suit her more than it should. I force my gaze back to Sophie.

Luckily, by the time Camino brings us our food, I’ve had half a glass of wine and don’t feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin anymore, and the three of us manage to chat for a few minutes. Camino even calls her brother over and introduces him. Emilio seems gentle and kind, and teases his sister in front of me about how she goes on and on about her art classes at home.

“I’m very glad she’s got you and your studio, Maite,” he says, grinning, “Because I’m not sure my wife and I get everything she is saying.”

 _You just have to listen_ , my irritating internal monologue supplies helpfully. _She speaks very clearly_.

Outwardly, I smile. “Well, you will have your chance to better understand it soon. I assume your sister has told you about our upcoming exhibit?”

“Oh yes,” Emilio answers. He slings an arm over Camino. “We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Just then, he gets called away by another patron at the bar, and he moves away from us. I take the last sip of my wine.

“Gracias, Camino. The wine and the patatas bravas were really good. Your family has a wonderful little place here.”

Camino nods happily. “Gracias, I’m glad you liked it.”

“What do we owe you?” Sophie asks.

Camino shakes her head. “On the house.”

“No, no, no,” both of us quickly protest. “Please, let us pay.”

But Camino just shakes her again. “It was such a nice surprise that you came in,” she says, her dark eyes briefly flicking to mine before sliding back to Sophie. “You can pay next time.”

Sophie nods in agreement. “Okay, but you can’t stop me from leaving a tip. So, here you are,” she continues, sliding some bills under her empty wine glass. “Excellent service. Our visit was even more than I was hoping for.”

I look sharply at my friend, her tone slightly suspicious to my trained ear, but she’s looking at Camino and smiling, and there is nothing to do but echo Sophie’s sentiments, add to the tip, and gather up our things. With one last glance at Camino and a promise to see her soon in the studio, Sophie and I put on our coats and head back outside.

We start walking back the way we came, Sophie a couple steps behind me, fussing with the zipper on her jacket. But she quickly catches up, and I know what’s coming before she even speaks.

“Do you want to talk about it now or later?” she asks, falling into step with me.

 _Fuck_.

I grimace and increase my pace. “Never. Is ‘never’ an option? Because I choose that.”

“Not even sort of,” my friend informs me, matching my faster stride.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Sophie,” I tell her, keeping my eyes straight ahead.

“Bullshit,” Sophie quickly retorts. “I saw it. You can deny it all you want to anyone else, but not to me.”

I sigh. “Sophie, stop exaggerating. There was nothing to see.”

Sophie grabs my arm and comes to a complete stop, bringing me to a halt right along with her. She tugs on my arm to turn me.

“Maite Zaldúa, look at me right now.”

I have no choice but to do as she asks as people pass by us, looking mildly interested.

Sophie’s eyes widen. “Oh my God,” she says.

“¿Qué?” I look at her as steadily as I can. She searches my eyes for several long moments, and then hers light up.

“It’s true. You like her!”

I give her a look.

“Of course I like her. I wouldn’t have worked with her for all these months if I didn’t like her.”

“No, no, no,” Sophie says, now looking far too pleased with herself. “You _like_ her. You’re attracted to her!”

Hearing it said out loud makes it more real than I care to acknowledge, and it’s my turn to grab Sophie’s arm and drag her off the sidewalk onto a small grassy area, away from the curious stares we’re now receiving.

“Sophie, I am not. And keep your voice down,” I hiss.

She points at me.

“Oh, yes you are! You do this thing when you’re lying, that little twitchy thing with your fingers.”

I look down, and the fingers of my left hand are rubbing against my thumb.

_Damn it._

I still my fingers and weigh my options, hoping something might occur to me that doesn’t involve a confession. But I quickly realize there is no escaping the inevitable, especially now that Sophie has a hold of it.

I look at her with gritted teeth. “Okay, fine. _Fine_. Maybe…you’re right, maybe some little part of me… _likes_ her. But it doesn’t matter, okay? It’s just a…it’s _nothing_. It just has to…run its course.”

Sophie lifts a dubious eyebrow.

“Doesn’t quite seem like it’s nothing, my friend. For the last hour, I just watched you barely able to stop looking at her long enough to have a conversation with me. It was like watching some sort of vision tracking test.” She smiles. “You pass with flying colors, by the way.”

I groan and briefly close my eyes.

“Sophie…”

“How long has this been going on?”

_Forever? Because it feels like forever._

“I have no idea,” I sigh, “A few weeks? A month?”

_Probably longer?_

I watch as Sophie nods, a grin spreading across her face.

“I knew it!” she exclaims triumphantly.

“Sophie, I…” I start, and then her words sink in, and I look at her and narrow my eyes. “Wait a second…what? You _knew_?!”

“Maite, eres mi mejor amiga. Por supuesto que lo sabía. I just had to find a way to get you to admit it.” She smiles again.

“You…?” I start piecing some things together. “Oh my God,” I say slowly. “You knew that Siglo Veintiuno belonged to Camino’s family, didn’t you?”

Sophie looks back at me, the picture of innocence.

“No idea,” she denies, “Just a happy coincidence.”

“Happy coincidence, my ass,” I reply, as the depth of my friend’s scheming sinks in. “How did you…? You know what? Never mind. Why didn’t you just ask?”

Sophie cocks her head at me.

“Because you would have denied it up, down, and sideways.”

Annoyingly, she is right, of course. I would have.

“So?” Sophie asks, “What are you going to do about it?

I turn and start walking up the street again toward the metro, and Sophie follows.

“Nothing,” I answer.

“What do you mean, ‘nothing’?”

“I mean _nothing_ , Sophie. I told you, this isn’t a thing. It will go away.”

Sophie snorts.

“Right. Is that why you looked like you wanted to throw her down on the bar and have your way with her when she handed you your wine?”

I quickly turn my head. “I did _not_!”

Sophie lifts her eyebrows. “If you say so. But I have eyes. And by the way, so does Camino.”

“What does that mean?” I demand.

“Umm, well, how do I say this so you don’t freak out? It means that she definitely did _not_ turn an interesting shade of red when you definitely were _not_ undressing her with your eyes because she definitely did _not_ notice.”

_Shit, shit, shit._

This was getting worse by the second.

“Jesus,” I mutter.

“Maite,” Sophie says, tucking her arm through mine and looking far too happy at my predicament, “You are looking at this the wrong way. This is a good thing!”

I look at her incredulously.

“How? How can this _possibly_ be a good thing?”

“Well, first of all, I’m very happy to discover that you’re not dead inside. I can’t tell you what a relief that is. I was a little worried after you turned down Stella. And second of all, what an amazing opportunity! _Go for it_!”

“Are you crazy?”

“Not at all. This is so exciting!”

I groan for the second time as we reach the metro station. Both of us go down the stairs and through the turnstile, and then it is time to part ways as we live in separate directions.

I turn toward her.

“Sophie, this is not a thing,” I tell her again. Sophie smiles and gives me that look that parents give their children when they say they’re not tired, but can’t stop yawning.

“Okay, if you say so,” she says, and she leans forward to hug me goodbye. “But I would be a lot more convinced if you didn’t just spend the last month blushing every time Camino’s name entered the conversation.”

I stare at Sophie’s retreating back, and briefly wonder if a jury would be lenient with me if I buried my best friend under my studio.

I sigh and turn to catch my train.


	10. Camino

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we've come to a pretty pivotal moment between Camino and Maite - the reveal of Maite's painting. But I thought "El Abrazo" needed a little update from 1914. So, being the dedicated fic writer I am, I went about the difficult task of researching modern lesbian artwork to find a painting that might do the trick. It was hard work, but someone had to do it. In the end, I found what I was looking for, thanks to an artist named Helene Delmaire. I used her beautiful "Nude I" as a template for Maite's painting, and I've included it at the end of this chapter so you can see it for yourself. 
> 
> So please enjoy, and as always, if you're so inclined, I'd love to know what you think. ;)

I close the register and hand the change back to the customer on the other side of the bar.

“Have a wonderful day,” I tell the woman. She smiles at me, nods, and slides a couple euros back toward me.

“Gracias,” I say, accepting the tip. I tuck the money into my apron, wave to Sara at the other end of the bar to let her know I’m leaving, and duck into the back room. I change quickly and pop into the office to grab my things.

Emilio is behind the desk, peering at the computer screen in front of him.

“Hey, I’m headed out,” I tell him, grabbing my backpack and coat. “Sara is still up front, but it’s not really busy, so I think she’ll be fine for a bit.”

Emilio looks up.

“Will we see you for dinner? Or are you going to lose track of time at Maite’s again?”

I make a face at him.

“I’m not sure. I’ll let you know. I have no idea what she has planned for me tonight.”

My brother shakes his head.

“Where did you come from?” he teases. “Are you sure you’re my sister? I can’t even draw a stick figure.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve seen your unfortunate attempts when we play Pictionary.”

“Very funny.”

I smile. “Artistic talent aside, we look far too much alike for you to deny our genetic bond.”

Emilio smiles in return. “Es la verdad. And such a lucky brother I am.” Emilio pauses and then says, “Hey, before you go, I wanted to ask you….”

I look at him questioningly.

“¿Sí?”

“Umm…well…I haven’t seen Ildefonso recently. I was just wondering…if everything was okay.”

I sigh and shift the weight of my backpack on my shoulder.

“Not…really. We’re going through some stuff. And I asked him for some space.”

“This isn’t anything I need to talk to him about, is it?”

I smile. “No, of course not. This is more…about me, and everything I’ve got going on.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Camino, really. These things are never easy. You know you can always talk to me if you need to.”

I nod gratefully.

“I know. But I’m just not ready to talk about it yet. I need to figure out.”

Emilio gets up, walks around the desk toward me, and envelops me in a big hug.

“I like Ildefonso, but I like you even more, so whatever it is, you need to do what’s best for you. I just want you to be happy.”

I melt into my brother’s hug and am once again thankful that I somehow lucked out in the sibling department.

“Gracias, Emilio. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Okay. Maybe I’ll save you some dinner.”

I laugh as I walk out the door.

\-------------------------------------

I pause before I round the corner of Maite’s house to walk back to the studio. School and work have kept me pretty busy the last few days, and I haven’t seen Maite since she and Sophie appeared at the bar earlier this week, and frankly, I find myself a little nervous.

To say I was surprised when they showed up is an understatement. Of all the places I expected to see Maite, my family’s bar wasn’t one of them, especially since she’d said she didn’t venture out that way very much. So when Emilio pointed them out to me, I certainly did a double take, and then my eyes locked directly onto Maite’s. And either Maite was getting worse at hiding her feelings or I was getting better at reading her, but either way, I could see everything from the last few days clearly written in her expression. I’m not sure which explanation scared me more.

I did my best to walk over calmly and take their order, and I think I did pretty well up until the second Maite’s hand closed over mine when I handed her the Rioja. I nearly jumped, and I’m surprised the wine stayed in the glass and didn’t end up all over Maite. I couldn’t stop myself from staring straight at her as I sucked in a quick breath and then immediately forgot to exhale. Somehow I had the presence of mind to extract my fingers out from under hers even as every nerve ending in my hand was reacting to her touch, and I silently thanked God when Sophie’s voice broke in to ask me a question, tearing my gaze away from Maite’s hand that was gripping the stem of the wine glass like her life depended on it.

Since then, I haven’t heard a word from Maite, which is rather unusual these days. Most days I can expect texts from her, usually in the form of links to paintings she wants me to study or an article or bit of news from the art world she thinks might be of interest to me.

But it has been radio silence for days, other than the quick acknowledgement of our lesson tonight, and so I feel unusually anxious as I finally make my way down the short path to the studio. At least I can see the light is on, so she hasn’t somehow forgotten I’m coming. Taking a deep breath, I turn the handle and open the door.

Maite is at her drafting table, bent over it in concentration.

“Hola,” I say as she looks up.

I’m not sure what I’m expecting exactly, but Maite surprises me by smiling widely and greeting me with an enthusiastic, “¡Hola! ¿Qué tal?”

Her response is a little jarring, to be honest, and it takes me a second to catch up to the cheery reception.

“I’m…fine,” I reply slowly, as I hang up my backpack and coat. “How are you?”

“¡Muy bien! I found out today I got a grant I applied for which means I’m going to be able to do an art installation downtown with some of my students next semester.”

I smile at her good news.

“That’s wonderful, I’m glad to hear it.”

Maite’s smile widens as she stands and walks toward the back of the room. I just watch her, somehow feeling a little confused that apparently we’re just going ignore whatever has been going on the past few days. 

“¿Qué vas a pintar hoy, Camino? Es hora que decidas por ti misma,” Maite announces, bringing an easel over to my usual spot.

I blink a couple times, trying to focus on what Maite is saying. For some reason, this conversation feels very disjointed, and I’m having a hard time following it.

I stall as I grab my robe off its hook, and pull it on. It’s not like I’ve never chosen what to draw, but so far, here, Maite has guided my subjects, and this is definitely something new. I slide my other arm into its sleeve.

“I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Bueno, time to start.”

Maite marches over and grabs a smallish canvas and brings it back to the easel, setting it down. She stares at the blank canvas and continues.

“Es muy importante que vaya registrando imágenes. Cuando salgas a la calle o vaya a las afueras y veas un edificio, una plaza, un parque, un bodegón…te pones delante al lienzo, lo recuerdas, y decides lo qué vas a pintar.”

I notice Maite isn’t quite looking at me while speaking, that in fact, she’s barely looked at me since I’ve arrived, and so, feeling a little piqued, I say something I know will get her attention.

“Can I paint you?”

That does it. She looks up at me sharply, and I see the same fleeting look in her eyes that I saw that afternoon in the bar – surprise, fear, confusion. But just as before, I see her shut it down just as quickly, and with a small shake of her head, she responds.

“No, todavía no es momento.”

But now something in me wants doesn’t quite want to let it go, and I look straight at her.

“I would love to paint you.”

Maite’s eyes drop away from me, darting back and forth, before she starts turning away.

“Bueno, quizas algún día,” she replies in way that tells me the subject isn’t open for debate.

She steps over to where she’s got a few pieces of fruit in a bowl, and I watch her as she grabs one of the apples and takes a bite. I take a frustrated breath and roll my shoulders, and then see Maite stretch out her hand in my direction.

“Pinta esta manzana,” she instructs, chewing, holding out the now-bitten apple. I give her a confused look.

“¿Mordida?”

Maite shrugs.

“Sure, why not? Bitten or no, paint it how you see it.”

I reach out to take the apple from Maite’s hand, and I notice as I do that Maite pulls back her fingers a hair, and I find myself torn between purposefully reaching out further with mine or being mindful of what she is clearly trying to avoid. In the end, I choose the latter.

“Lo intentaré,” I say, taking the apple from her. Maite nods and walks off to her drafting table as I grab a small stand and pull it closer to my easel. I set the apple on top of it, and turn it so the bitten part is facing toward me. As I step behind my easel and grab my pencil, Maite starts talking, the cadence of her speech more rushed than usual, like someone who is trying to avoid silence.

“So I talked with my friend, Alicia, about the exhibit, and it looks like things are on schedule. She would like to see everyone’s pieces in about a month so she can create the catalogue by the opening night.”

I stop just as I’m about to start outlining the apple, and glance over at Maite.

“A month? That’s so soon.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll be done in plenty of time, your mother’s portrait is coming along quite nicely.”

“I know, but I thought maybe I’d be able to paint a second piece.”

“Bueno, we’ll see,” Maite replies, eyes on the paper before her, sketching quick, sharp lines with her pencil. “If it ends up being just one, that’s okay too. You’ll have plenty more opportunities to showcase your work, Camino, of that I am sure.”

“I hope so. I’m just…excited. It’s my first one.”

Maite puts down her pencil and looks at me, and for the first time since I walked in, I see the normal, genuine warmth in her eyes. She smiles.

“I know, Camino. And you should be excited. I have a feeling people are going to notice your work. But let’s focus on the portrait you’ve started, and if you have time, then we can talk about a second, okay? Quantity doesn’t outweigh quality.”

I nod, smiling a little at her ever-present reminder to take my time.

“Okay.”

“Good. Now…how about less chatting and more painting, hmmm? Paint the most appetizing apple in the world.”

“With your teeth marks in it,” I say.

Maite gives me a look.

“Stop stalling and paint.”

I smile again as Maite returns to her own work, and I take a moment to look at the apple before I lift my pencil and begin to sketch.

*********

It is several hours later, pitch black outside, and the apple and I are still in a standoff. At some point, I dragged a lamp over and set it over the stand to see it better. For some reason, I am bound and determined to finish this stupid apple with the bite out of it, already turning brown around the edges. Maite watched me position the lamp without comment, and continued with her own work.

In fact, Maite has said very little about tonight’s lesson. To be truthful, I’m not even entirely sure what the point of this particular exercise is – Maite has been quiet on that point as well. But I did get a laugh out of her when my stomach grumbled, evidently loud enough for her to hear, and she disappeared out of the studio into the house, coming back a few minutes later with a couple sandwiches, chips, and some bottled seltzer.

“Sorry, it’s not much, but hopefully it will take the edge off.”

I’d gratefully taken a break, and we sat on the couch and ate together. Maite told me about the project that her new grant would fund, and I watched as she got more and more animated the more she told me, making me wish in the back of my mind that I could somehow participate. I listened, her excitement evident, and saw her face light up, in a certain way it only did when she was talking about art. I smiled to myself as I tipped my head back to drink the last of my seltzer.

But when I lowered the bottle I found Maite’s gaze not on my face, but fixed somewhere in the vicinity of my throat. I instantly felt a shiver run through me because I recognized the look on her face well. It was the same look she had the other night when our hands touched.

And maybe I don’t have a ton of experience, but I’ve worked at a bar long enough to know that look. It was one of wanting, and it has certainly been directed at me before, by guys who have had a little too much to drink and have forgotten their manners, or by those who think a dazzling smile and empty charm will get them a night they can brag about to their friends the next day. But those are easy to dismiss with a roll of my eyes or a quick glance at our security guy if need be.

However, seeing it again in Maite’s eyes, sent a heat crawling up my neck, just as it did the other night. I thought maybe I’d imagined it then, but clearly, I did not.

I tried not to squeeze the empty bottle in my hands as I cleared my throat.

“Maite?”

She blinked and her eyes quickly lifted to mine.

“Hmmm?”

I set down my plate, grateful that it didn’t rattle as it touched the table.

“Muchas gracias por la comida, I think I was getting a little lightheaded. But…I’d better get back to the painting,” I said with a half-smile, gesturing toward my easel.

Maite stared at me a moment, then nodded.

“Sí…claro que sí.”

I stood and made my way over to my canvas, suddenly grateful for the small amount of distance now between us.

I picked up my palette as Maite gathered the plates and water bottles together, and I noticed her close her eyes with a brief shake of her head before she looked over at me.

“I’m just going to take these back to the house, okay?”

I nodded and resumed painting as she walked out the door. When the door closed, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

Now Maite is puttering around the studio, moving around some canvases, stacking what looks like a few old, warped ones by the door. I’ve noticed that she has been tidying up the space a bit in the last couple weeks, and as she continues to move around, I peer at the apple in the less-than-ideal light.

Finally, Maite walks by me, her arms full with rolled up paper. She glances at me and then my painting.

“Puedes dejarlo, Camino. Ya no hay buena luz.”

I frown, still determined.

“Pero mañana la manzana va estar pordrida.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maite look at me.

“Hay cosas que solo tienen un instante de belleza y hay que saber captar su esencia.”

I stop painting as her words register. I look up and then over at her. I think she sees some of the frustration on my face, and she smiles.

“Tomorrow I’ll bite another apple for you. Te lo prometo. But for now, let’s be done with this one,” Maite turns to set all her papers down.

I sigh. She’s right, and I have to admit, I’m tired of staring at this piece of fruit. I set down my palette and grab a small towel to wipe the bits of paint off my hands. It is then that I catch sight of a particular canvas at the back of the room, leaning against several others. The bottom bit of it is exposed, and the colors peeking out instantly recreate the image in my mind I’ve been trying to forget. But as I wipe at the paint stubbornly sticking to my fingers, it occurs to me that maybe there is only one way to purge it from my thoughts. I turn halfway toward Maite, who I can hear behind me, rifling through papers.

“Can I ask you for something?” I say quickly before I can think about it too much.

“Sure, as long as it’s not for money.”

“No,” I reply, smiling, as I hang up robe. “No, what I want to ask for is more valuable. At least to me.”

I see Maite look over at me, either my words or the tone of my voice catching her attention. Her expression is both curious and guarded. I glance over at the canvas, take a deep breath, and ask before my nerve gives out.

“¿Podría ver el cuadro de otra día?...Creo que me lo he ganadó.”

To my surprise, when I finally look up at her, Maite has a small, amused smile on her face.

“Y….¿Qué has hecho para ganártelo?” she asks, walking toward me.

I make a face, gesturing toward my painting and the now very sad-looking apple.

“I’ve spent hours painting this bitten and rotten apple. Isn’t that enough?”

Again surprising me, a genuine laugh bubbles up from Maite. She nods, and I don’t miss it as her eyes flick over me before she meets my gaze.

“Tienes razón. Te lo has ganado.”

I smile, secretly a little pleased with myself. This is a better reaction than I anticipated. To be honest, I thought it might be the case that Maite asked me to leave and the somewhat delicate balance we’d fashioned since that disastrous evening would be lost.

Maite hesitates for a moment before turning and walking to the back of the studio. I watch her as she picks up the canvas, turns, and walks back. As she passes by me toward an empty easel, she eyes me and asks,

“¿Estás segura que quieres verlo?”

I nod seriously.

“It would be my honor.”

Maite glances at me before setting the painting down on the easel, taking a deep breath.

“Almost no one has ever seen this,” she says quietly, the tone of her voice now tinged with melancholy. “Really, just…Sophie.”

I walk slowly to her side.

“It’s a privilege to be allowed see your most personal painting.”

I want to tell her that it’s not just curiosity, though that is how it started. Somehow, I feel that under the cloth lie some of the answers I seek, that I will somehow have a better understanding of what has been happening to me lately. Maybe the push/pull I have felt between me and the woman standing next to me will stop tugging on me relentlessly and make more sense.

Maite looks at me as if she’s taking one more moment to weigh her decision to show me what virtually no one has ever seen. Finally, I see her mouth lift in the smallest of smiles.

“Está bien.”

With a last slight gesture of her arms as if to say “here goes nothing,” Maite lifts her hand and pulls the cloth away from the canvas, giving me my first full unobstructed view.

Whatever I thought this might be, I was not ready.

I stare, transfixed, nothing moving but my eyes as they try to take in every minute detail of the painting in front of me.

“Voila,” Maite says quietly. “I…started this a long time ago. But I’ve never been able to finish it. Se llama… _La Primera_.”

“It’s you,” I breathe.

“Sí,” she responds with the smallest of nods. “It’s me. And the first woman I ever loved…,” Maite’s head turns toward me. “¿Qué te parece?”

I hear so much emotion in Maite’s voice, emotion that I also easily see in the brush strokes in front of me, vivid and immediate, and even though it doesn’t seem nearly adequate, I say the one word that comes to mind as I turn toward her.

“Stunning.”

Maite’s eyes meet mine and we hold each other’s gaze for several seconds, before I turn my head slowly back to the painting.

The corner of the canvas that I had seen before had hardly done it justice. It is in its entirety that the story lies.

What I saw was indeed true. There is a much younger Maite lying in the bottom corner of the canvas, her features evident in profile only as she lies with her head resting against the small of another woman’s back, her mouth pressed intimately to the swell of her backside. Her nearly black hair is falling slightly into her face, the rest of it swept behind her.

As for the other woman, she is on her side, her nude form graceful and beautiful. But she is turned away from Maite, and I actually cannot even see her face, obscured as it is by the bend of her arm, though I somehow get the impression that she is maybe older. Her blonde hair is fanned over a pillow, and it almost looks like she’s stretching away from Maite.

But it is Maite’s face I am drawn to again and again. Her eyes are closed and at first glance it appears as though she’s resting. But when I look, really look, I see the sadness on her face, a look of almost quiet desperation, as if she is trying to hold onto something she knows is slipping through her fingers. I am lost in her expression, the grief of it permeating me as if it is my own, the depth of the pain on Maite’s face becoming more and more evident the longer I stare.

My heart feels like it’s being squeezed, and then I hear a quiet hitch of breath beside me. I turn to see tears in Maite’s eyes as she also stares at the painting.

“Maite…” I say quietly, but my voice trails off because I’m not at all sure what I’m supposed to say here. Yet I want to say something because it is my fault that she is confronting this right now. Because I asked, she is showing me something of herself that almost no one has seen and I need her to know this piece of her is safe with me.

I turn toward her fully, and offer her the only thing I can.

“Tell me about her,” I say, keeping my voice gentle. I don’t want it to sound like a demand, but rather a sincere invitation if she’d like to accept. If she is willing, I will listen.

Part of me doesn’t expect Maite to respond. It is obvious how private she is about this part of her life, and it is clearly something she still struggles with. But adding to an evening full of surprises, she takes a breath, and begins to speak. Her speech is halting.

“Se llamaba Ángela. She was one of my professors at university. Brilliant artist, engaging teacher, sharp mind. It was easy to have a crush on her. Hell, half the class did, guys and girls. But she and I became…close. I asked her to be my advisor, and I used that as an excuse to see her more than I probably should have. Though like I said, she was an amazing artist, and regardless of my crush on her, I was learning so much. I wanted to soak it all up, and so I convinced myself it was no big deal if I spent a lot of time with her. I reasoned that it wasn’t like I couldn’t control myself. And for a while, I did.

“But then one night, I was in her office late, and I don’t know what got into me, but…I kissed her. And to my utter shock, instead of kicking me out of her office…she kissed me back. Suddenly, I had the thing I thought I would never get.

“And that, as they say, was that. It was such a terrible idea and we both knew it, but once we started, neither one of us could stop. We were so in love with each other so quickly, the possible consequences mattered little to us. Besides, the idea that it was secret and against the rules added to the excitement of it, to be honest. I threw myself into the relationship completely, and I didn’t care.”

Maite pauses, looks at the painting, and then lifts the cloth still in her hand and covers it back up, as if she can’t look at it anymore. She tucks the corners around the canvas and then walks away, as if needing physical distance from the easel.

I follow her, stopping a couple steps back.

“What happened?” I ask. Maite shakes her head.

“Ella estaba casada y su marido nos descubrió.”

I lift my eyebrows in surprise.

_Oh._

Now this was starting to make a little more sense.

“She came from a very conservative family. I know it wasn’t that long ago, but even just a few years back, the attitude toward same-sex relationships was different than it is now. Her husband immediately told her parents. Her sister. Her best friend. And they all freaked out. Ironically, not because she’d cheated on her husband, but because it was with a woman. And Ángela was forced to make a choice – she could stay with me and lose everything – her job, her family, her marriage – or she could end our relationship and go back to the life she was expected to live….”

Maite’s voice trails off, and I step closer, so now I’m just behind her.

“How long were you together?”

“Just over two years.”

I see Maite’s shoulders start to shake, and I see her lift one hand to press against her mouth. Without thinking, I reach out to grasp her elbow, pulling her around gently to face me. When her eyes lift to mine, the tears spill over and run down her face.

Instinctually, I step forward and simply pull her into my arms, wrapping her in a tight hug. She stiffens for a second, and then her arms come around my back and I feel her chin on my shoulder. I wrap one arm around her waist and rub small circles between her shoulder blades with the other.

“I am so sorry, Maite,” I murmur. I feel as if I’m still missing key details of this story, but whatever they are, they aren’t important right now. This relationship clearly had a profound effect on Maite, and marked her in ways I’m probably not even aware.

She and I stand in the middle of studio for several minutes until I can hear Maite’s breathing calm down, and she pulls back from me, trying hard to offer me a smile.

“Lo siento, Camino.”

I look at her in disbelief.

“¿Para qué? For being human? I should be apologizing to you,” I say, stepping away to grab a couple tissues off the front desk and handing them to Maite. “I’m sorry I asked to see the painting. I had no idea.”

But Maite is shaking her head.

“No, no,” she says as she presses the tissue to her eyes and then her nose. “Don’t be sorry. I’m not. In fact, it has been a long time since I told anyone that story. Thank you for listening.”

I nod. “Siempre. And just so you know,” I say, reaching out to squeeze her hand, “ _La Primera_ , it’s safe with me. Te lo prometo.”

“Gracias, Camino,” Maite replies, squeezing my hand back before letting it go. “And now, if you don’t mind, I think I need to be alone for a bit.”

I look at her, worried. “Are you sure?”

She nods. “Por favor.”

“Of course,” I respond, even though leaving Maite right now in this state is the last thing I want to do. “It’s pretty late anyway. My brother will be wondering where I am again.”

I walk toward the front of the room, slide into my coat, and grab my bag before I turn back around.

“Buenas noches, Maite.”

Maite looks up from where she is staring vaguely at the floor.

“Buenas noches, Camino.”

I turn and let myself out the studio door, leaving Maite with a lost look in her eye.

(Helene Delmaire - Nude I)


	11. Maite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand, we return to our poor, suffering artist. 
> 
> Maite, Maite, Maite. *headpalm*
> 
> Will she listen to Sophie? Can she follow her own self-imposed rules? Does Camino have any interest in rules? Is this how sculpting classes normally go? 
> 
> If you want the answers to any of these questions...by all means, read on!

Running has always helped me clear my mind.

I pull on my cold running gear, locate my arm band for my phone, and tuck my earbuds into my ears. I spend a few minutes stretching, and then take off down the street in an easy jog.

My body almost instantly starts protesting, reminding me that I haven’t done this in a while, and wouldn’t it just be much better sitting on the couch with a cup of tea and wallowing in confusion and general panic?

_Shut up. We’re doing this._

_Fine_ , my body grumbles and settles in.

I start my running playlist, and for the first few blocks, my mind is, for once, pleasantly blank, and all I can hear is the steady beat of music in my ear coinciding with my footfalls as they hit the pavement.

But it is only a matter of time before I start thinking about the thing I don’t want to think about.

I have no idea what possessed me to show Camino the painting. Before she came in last night, I had resolved to hit the reset button. Whatever had been going on the last few weeks, whatever this _nothing_ was that I was feeling, I decided to set it aside. I would go back to the original premise of this relationship – she was an art student in need of guidance, and I was the teacher who had agreed to do a friend a favor and provide it. Nothing more, nothing less. Camino was proving herself to be gifted when it came to painting, and I owed it to her to help bring that out.

And it had started out fine, just as I intended. I’m not sure exactly what I wanted her to do with the apple, but she had something to focus on and I made myself busy. But then I heard her stomach grumble and realized what time it was, and reasoned we both should eat.

It should have been fine. And it almost was.

We had a pleasant conversation, and even though they weren’t exactly gourmet, the sandwiches did the job. But then Camino went to finish off her water just as I made the mistake of looking up as she did so, and my eyes immediately went to the long column of her throat. And my brain, which was cooperating less and less these days, promptly came up with five things I wanted to do immediately, the leading contender being to lean forward and slide my mouth along the length of exposed skin.

When Camino’s voice at last broke in, I shook off the image and hastily excused myself to take the dishes back into the house. Once in the kitchen, I set them down and grabbed the counter, squeezing my eyes shut.

 _Stop it, stop it, stop it_. _This is_ not _what I planned. This absolutely cannot happen_.

I could almost feel my brain shrug as if to say, _Don’t look at me_ , _I’m not driving this train anymore_.

I had tried to regroup once I went back, to keep working on getting rid of some of the old stuff hanging around the studio as Camino continued to paint, but I have to admit, I wasn’t thinking very clearly by the time Camino asked to see _La Primera_. And the absolute pout she’d given me, explaining she’d earned it by painting the sad, bitten apple, had even amused me, so I agreed without fully considering what I’d agreed to.

By the time it occurred to me how much of myself I’d exposed, it was far too late, and I found myself telling Camino about Ángela, in a way I hadn’t allowed myself to do in quite some time.

The music in my ear changes from a steady, easy rhythm to the quicker tempo of a hard drumbeat, and I kick off into a faster pace, my lungs beginning to burn a little as my legs push to match the new tempo.

But even the physical strain starting to press in on me can’t stop the memory of Camino hugging me – the way her arms easily wrapped around me, the comforting circles of her hand on my back, the way I leaned into it for a few seconds simply because I wanted to.

By the time I reach my turnaround point, a small park near the edge of my neighborhood, I can’t ignore the burning in my lungs anymore, and I slow to a walk to catch my breath. I choose a short path I know loops back to this point, and I begin walking.

When Camino left, I had indulged in a really epic cry; that ugly sobbing you can only truly do when you’re alone. It had been a very long time since I’d fully relived everything that had happened with Ángela – usually I kept that safely stored away in a very deep place where most of the time even I would be hard-pressed to find it. And yet, Camino’s simple offer to listen to the story had brought it instantly to the surface, and I found myself improbably telling my young student about the relationship that in many ways shaped me into who I am today. But once Camino closed the door to the studio, all the youthful indiscretion of that relationship, all the pain with which it ended, combined with the echo of Camino’s gentle embrace, and I collapsed on the couch and cried like I hadn’t in ages.

Having caught my breath, I near the end of the loop, and ease back once more into a simple jog, reminding myself that it’s not necessary to push so hard, considering I haven’t done this in a while. I also give myself permission to stop thinking about last night and just concentrate on now. And blessedly, my mind decides to give me a break, and I focus on the steadiness of my pace and the way my body is loosening up, muscle memory returning as I fall into a comfortable rhythm.

I am halfway home when my phone pings with the arrival of a text. I rotate my armband to see who it is. Sophie.

 **Where are you? Coffee? Café del Sol, 20 minutes**.

Not wanting to stop, I hit the dial button.

“Hey,” Sophie answers after the first ring. “Where are you? And what’s with the heavy breathing?”

“I’m out for a run,” I explain, crossing a side street and then back onto the sidewalk.

“Oh,” Sophie says, sounding disappointed, “I was hoping it was something more fun.”

I can practically see Sophie’s eyebrows wiggling, and I roll my eyes.

“So,” she continues, “I suppose that means you don’t have time for a cup of coffee?”

“No, I can. I’m almost home. Give me thirty minutes so I can shower quickly, and I’ll be there.”

“Bien,” Sophie grouses, “I guess I can keep grading these papers for another few minutes. See you soon.”

We hang up, and I turn the final corner for home.

\----------------------------------------------------

I collapse in the seat next to Sophie at Café del Sol, one of our favorite little coffee spots we discovered years ago. It’s far enough off the beaten path for most tourists to stay out of, the owners are a cheerful couple who everyone adores, and the coffee is damn good.

I arrive just as our coffee is being delivered to our table as well as two delicious-looking pastries. I eye Sophie.

“Rough day?”

“Not as all. But they looked too good to pass up.”

I slide the espresso Sophie ordered for me closer, and I pluck one of the pastries off the plate.

“Agreed. So,” I say around a mouthful of buttery goodness, “Had to get out of the house?”

Sophie hums.

“I was grading theory papers. They were…not good.”

I wince in sympathy, and take a sip of the coffee, enjoying the first, strong taste.

“Oh, that’s what I needed,” I say, closing my eyes briefly. “Where’s Julien? He isn’t around to offer any...distraction?” I ask.

Sophie sighs.

“Sadly, no. He and Stella went back to Paris for a bit to visit their parents. So I’m left to my own devices.”

I nod and then look up.

“Hey, I’m sorry if that date with Stella made things awkward at all for you.”

Sophie waves her hand dismissively.

“No te preocupes. She’s cool. In fact, I think she’s actually dating someone now.”

I make an offended sound.

“So soon after our amazing evening together?”

Sophie smiles. “Just so you know, she’s probably going to come to Alicia’s exhibit, so….”

I hold up my hands. “I will be perfectly polite. Te lo prometo.”

“I know you will. Gracias.”

“So does that mean I finally get to meet Julien? I’m intrigued by this man who has gotten past your initial screening process.”

“Ha ha. Yes, he will also be at the opening. And I can’t wait for you to meet him. I think you’ll really like him.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“¿Y tu? What possessed you to go running? The weather is awful.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s just cold. That doesn’t mean I can’t run.”

Sophie gives me a look. “In fact, that is exactly what it means.”

“Sophie, you’d say the exact same thing if it was hot.”

“Very true. Doesn’t matter the weather, you should only run when chased.” I shake my head as Sophie continues, “You haven’t run in a while.”

“I know. I’m going to pay for it tomorrow,” I comment, already feeling a slight ache in my calves.

“Hmmm,” Sophie muses, “You usually go running when there’s something on your mind.”

I groan inwardly.

“That’s not the only reason I run, Sophie. It’s good exercise,” I reply mildly, hoping to skirt around what Sophie is hinting at.

“Yeah, but was it the reason _this_ time?”

I take another bite of the pastry and take my time chewing.

_“Get a best friend,” they said. “It’ll be fun,” they said._

Sophie is looking at my expectantly when I glance over at her.

“You think you know me so well,” I grumble at her.

“That’s because I do,” comes the quick retort. I respond by taking a slow sip of my coffee, and Sophie shrugs. “But if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fi –”

“I showed Camino _La Primera_ ,” I blurt out.

That stops Sophie cold, and she looks at me with genuine confusion.

“¿Qué?”

_What in God’s name just made me say that?!_

I shake my head quickly.

“Nada. No importa.”

“I’m sorry, did I hear that right?” Sophie asks, completely ignoring me. “You showed Camino _La Primera_? The same _La Primera_ that you wouldn’t even show _me_ for years? To someone you’ve known for just a few months? Or did you paint a row of ducks and name it after the lead mallard?”

I tilt my head at Sophie and press my lips together. “No ducks.”

“When was this, exactly?”

My eyes drop into my coffee cup, half wishing I could jump into it.

“Last night.”

“Last night,” Sophie repeats, sitting back in her chair. “Mmmmkay. Well, no wonder you were running this morning. I’m surprised you’re not halfway to Barcelona right now. How…um, how did this happen, exactly?”

I shrug. “She asked to see it.”

“Oh,” Sophie nods as if this is the most normal explanation in this world. “And how did that go? ‘Maite, thank you for the lesson, but before I go, do you have a really private painting you could show me?’”

“Sophie,” I say with a reproachful look. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Maite, I’m just trying to understand how the woman who you insist you have nothing going on with somehow ended up seeing the painting of you and Ángela you’ve been holding onto for more than ten years and _let no one see_.”

I hold out my palms helplessly.

“No lo sé. She was over last night painting and it was getting late and she was finishing up. And she wanted to see it, and I agreed. I mean, yes, there’s a little more to the story, but…basically, that’s it.”

“¿Y…?”

“¿Y qué?”

“Are you going to tell me that she saw it, nodded, and left, or what?”

I stall with another sip of coffee.

“I told her about Ángela.”

Sophie sets down her cup and rubs her face, her expression somewhere between utter shock and disbelief.

“Maite,” she says slowly, “You have a very interesting way of doing nothing about this ‘passing’ attraction to your art student.”

This time I groan out loud and close my eyes.

“Lo sé, I shouldn’t have done it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, es verdad. I really shouldn’t have. But we were standing there looking at the painting, and it all came back, Sophie. And I just…started talking. I’m not sure I could have stopped if I’d tried.”

“Did you tell her everything?”

I shake my head, my eyes still closed.

“Not everything.”

“Maite, look at me.” I feel Sophie’s hand on my arm, and I open my eyes. “Are you intentionally trying not to see what’s happening here?”

“You mean, other than my slow slide into insanity?”

Sophie looks at me incredulously.

“Have you stopped for a second to ask _why_ you showed her the painting? _Why_ you told her about Ángela?”

“Because I’m an idiot.”

Sophie slaps my arm.

“Yes, you are, but not for the reasons you think. Maite, Camino makes you feel safe. You trust her. It’s not by accident that you showed it to her. You _wanted_ to.”

“Safe?” I ask, pointedly ignoring the implications of what Sophie just said, “Are you kidding me? This is what ‘safe’ feels like? This is the opposite of what ‘safe’ feels like. Mostly, I feel like I’m losing my mind, and I need it to stop.”

“Or you could accept it and explore what it means.”

I shake my head vehemently. “Absolutely not. This is not a thing. I made a mistake, that’s all.”

Sophie sighs. “Jesus, you’re stubborn. Fine. If you want to do it the hard way, fine. Your call. I’ll wait. But I firmly reserve the right to say ‘I told you so.’”

“Not happening. You’ll be waiting forever.”

“We’ll see,” Sophie says as she waves over to the barista for a refill on our coffees. “We’ll see.”

\----------------------------------------------------

Despite Sophie’s insistence that it will fail, my reset strategy still stands.

When Camino arrives the next day, I have a plan in place for what she’s going to work on, and I’m hoping that finally giving in to her repeated requests will be enough to get focused back on her artistic development.

Last night I had somewhat aimlessly wandered back to my studio. I’d been watching TV, but couldn’t really follow whatever I had on nor could I shake the feeling of restlessness that was dogging me. I had the distinct feeling I needed to do _something_ , but it was different than the feeling I get when I’m itching to paint.

After standing in the middle of the studio, feeling somewhat foolish as I looked around hoping something would catch my attention, my eyes finally landed the molding clay I keep off to the side and I nodded to myself.

_Yes, that’s it._

I pulled out my stool and slipped on my robe, filled a small bowl with water, and picked up a hunk of clay. I ended up sitting there for hours, pressing my fingers into it, shaping it slowly, patiently. It did more to calm me than my run did, and as the figure took shape, I felt a bit of equilibrium return to me.

I should have known to turn to this first. Running is good, but digging into something creative has always been the thing to center me. And the tangible feel of the clay in my hands gave me a sense of realness, grounding me.

_See? This is all you needed._

I nodded, in complete agreement with myself, and tried hard to ignore the sensation that my brain was shrugging again.

Today, I’m just starting to etch some of the details into the second figure I’ve molded with a small carving tool when Camino comes through the door. 

“Hola,” she greets me with a smile.

“Buenos días.”

Camino hangs up her things and turns toward me. She hangs back a bit, and when I look up at her, there is a slightly concerned look in her eye. I raise my eyebrows.

“¿Camino? What is it?”

“Nada. Well…,” she starts, hesitation in her voice, “Are you, um, are you okay?”

I should have anticipated this coming up. But I nod quickly. “Of course.”

“It’s just, after last night, I thought…” she trails off.

I smile at her. “Camino, estoy bien. Gracias por escucharme. Lo siento si te preocupé.”

Camino shifts a little.

“If you ever need to…talk…again, I just want to say, I’m…here.”

The sincerity in her voice is clear, and I am touched by her genuine offer.

“Gracias, Camino. De verdad. Es muy amable.”

She nods, the topic put to rest, and we are both quiet for a moment before her eyes fall to the miniature sculpture of the woman I shaped last night. She walks closer and reaches toward it before stopping herself.

“May I?” she asks.

I nod. “Por supesto.”

She picks up the small wooden base it’s sitting on and brings it closer to her face to examine it.

“Es preciosa. As gorgeous as your paintings.”

I continue carving the musculature of the figure’s shoulders in front of me.

“Mmm, gracias, but these are really just models. I mostly work on them when I need something different to do. Sophie’s always after me to try doing a full-sized one in marble or bronze.”

“Why wouldn’t you? I’m sure it’d be beautiful. I mean, look at this. I still don’t totally understand how you just take a lump of clay and suddenly pull something like this out it.”

I stop what I’m doing and glance at her as she puts the figure back down.

“To be honest,” I say, “It’s not that much different than taking a blank canvas and transmitting an image onto it. You have to take whatever that image is in your head and find it in the clay.”

Camino snorts.

“You make it sound so simple. As if anyone can just come along with any idea they please, and pull something beautiful out of nothing.”

I chuckle. “I’m not saying that. But if you want something bad enough, you’ll find a way to achieve it.” I notice her dubious expression. “Tu tienes alma de artista, Camino, y si la dejas volar libremente puedes conseguir lo que tú quieras.”

“Do you really think one day I’ll be able to do something like this?”

I take a deep breath. “Well, that’s what we’re about to find out,” I say as Camino looks at me curiously. “I thought today you might like to try your hand at working with clay.”

Camino’s face instantly lights up, and despite myself something in me thrills to be the cause of it.

“¿De veras?” she asks, excitement in her voice.

“De veras,” I confirm, smiling at her reaction.

Camino grins, and then she hesitates.

“Wait, what about the apple?”

“Hmmm? Oh.” I’d completely forgotten about that. “Do you really want to keep painting it? I’ve got another one over there I can take a bite out of for you. Or do you want to work with the clay?”

Camino appears to consider the question.

“Mmmm….the apple, I think.” I raise my eyebrows at her as she tries and fails to hold a straight face. “Of _course_ I want to try the clay,” she says enthusiastically.

“Bueno, let’s get to it then,” I say, shaking my head with amusement and standing up.

Camino shifts her weight from foot to foot. “I hope I don’t disappoint you.”

_Never._

I smile at her.

_Stay focused, Maite._

“I think you can do more than paint, Camino.”

A shy smile crosses Camino’s face.

“I’m really excited to find out.”

I find myself holding her gaze for a moment before I clear my throat and turn.

“Well, then…let’s give it a shot. Here, you’ll need this,” I say, grabbing one of the old smocks I have lying around for sculpting. I lift the loops of the arms up toward her, and she slides into them as I tuck the straps over her shoulders.

“Así,” I say before indicating that Camino should sit on the stool I just vacated. She takes her seat, and looks up at me expectantly.

_Just teach, Maite. Just teach._

“Lo primero que tenemos que hacer es componer una imagen en nuestro cerebro,” I say, framing my hands to illustrate the point, and then clasping them in front of me. A look of concentration crosses Camino’s face as her focus shifts off to the side.

“Mmmmm….like a bird?”

I don’t know why, but her choice makes me smile.

“Absolutely, like a bird. And now we have two options – sketch the image,” I say, holding out my hand to indicate Option One, “Or work freehand with the clay,” I finish, holding out my other palm for Option 2.

Camino’s smile is telling, and I know which one she’ll choose before she speaks.

“Prefiero el segundo.”

_See? Good. Now Step Two._

“Muy bien. Then let’s grab a small bit of clay and start kneading it, hmm?” I instruct as Camino reaches over to the lump of clay on the table and digs in, grabbing a handful. She takes the clay and squeezes it tentatively. Like all people starting out with this medium, the process of working with it is foreign. “Really get in there, Camino. Without any fear. Don’t be scared of getting dirty.”

Camino responds to my direction by squeezing harder.

“Eso es. Así,” I encourage, as she rolls the clay between her hands. “Fuertemente, muy bien,” I say, nodding, as the clay starts to soften from Camino’s kneading.

_Step Three._

“Now, take a little bit of water and wet the clay.”

Camino does as instructed, leaning over to scoop some water from the bowl before her delicate fingers sprinkle it over the clay and then close once more, working in the water.

_Maite! Step Four._

“Now we have to decide what part of the bird we want to start with. So maybe, the wings?”

Camino smiles and nods and starts pressing the clay between her palms again.

“Aaaasí,” I say, and then, “Suavemente, Camino, suavemente,” as a look of frustration crosses her face when the clay refuses to cooperate, resisting her. She looks up at me as I try to model the technique for her with my own hands, sliding my right palm firmly over my left. “Acaricia al barro para modelarlo.”

Camino frowns slightly and lays the clay in her left hand. She presses the fingers of her right hand into it, copying the same motion, but she isn’t applying quite enough pressure to be effective.

“Eso es, pero sin miedo. Mira.”

And without thinking, I walk behind Camino and lean down, stretching my arms around her, cradling her left palm in mine and sliding my right hand over hers.

I hold her left hand steady as I push the fingers of her right hand firmly into the clay until she is pressing into it with the right amount of force to get the result she needs.

“Aaaaasí, ¿lo ves?” I ask, following her hand once more as we knead the clay a second time together. “Aaaaasí.” I smile as Camino starts to get it, and the clay begins to give way. I ease the pressure of my right hand, but continue to follow hers as the clay starts to take the shape she’ll need for the wings.

I hear Camino’s small sound of happiness as she finally falls into a rhythm, her fingers now pressing confidently in the clay.

“You’re right,” she says, “This isn’t as easy as it looks, but I’m really happy I’m getting to try.”

As Camino is speaking, she turns her head in my direction, smiling, and quite suddenly, I find myself face-to-face with my student, her eyes lifted to mine, and her mouth mere centimeters from my own. The smile on her lips fades as we both realize at the same time the position we are in. It feels like all the oxygen is immediately sucked out of the room, and for some reason, I can hear what sounds like an entire ocean roaring in my ear. 

My eyes flick across Camino’s face before they land, entirely without my consent, on her mouth. And for a moment, a _moment_ , I forget myself and entertain the idea of what it would be like to simply lean forward and press my mouth to hers; to give into this nearly overpowering desire and just let go.

Would her lips be as soft as they look? Would they fit against mine as I imagine they would? Would she respond if I were to kiss her?

What would I do if she didn’t?

What would I do if she _did_?

My entire body tenses as I am rendered seemingly incapable of doing anything, either leaning forward or leaning away, trapped in some sort of limbo of indecision.

Camino, for her part, has simply gone still, her gaze hooded, as if she is just waiting for me to make a choice, which is confusing all on its own. The anxiety within me is only rising, and now I am painfully aware of every point at which we are still touching. Her left palm is still resting gently in mine. Our right hands, having stopped kneading the clay, are partially entwined, my fingers having slipped between hers. And I am all but draped over her, my chest pressed against her back, my head tucked over her shoulder. 

I remain paralyzed for several more long seconds before the rational voice in my head kicks in.

_Maite! Does this look like Step Five to you??_

The full weight of the situation sets in, and I at last force myself to straighten up, my right hand dropping away from Camino’s, my left briefly sliding along her shoulder before I step back. I press my lips together, chastising myself for not guarding against something like this.

_How hard was it to simply keep some physical distance, Maite?_

I squeeze my eyes shut briefly.

 _I was just trying to show her how to work the clay properly,_ I argue.

Is it possible for your own brain to laugh at you?

_Yeah, right._

I stand behind Camino as she slowly takes up working the clay again, and I take a moment to gather myself. My hands clench and unclench several times before I pass one hand over my face.

_Step Five, Maite. Step Five. How long do you plan on standing behind her in silence like some sort of wraith?_

I take a slow, measured breath.

“Bueno, Camino, it looks like the clay is just about where you want it to be. Now, let’s start shaping those wings.”

Camino looks up at me, her dark eyes holding something unspoken, something I can’t quite decipher, but she finally nods in agreement.

“I’m ready,” she says, her voice clear and steady. “Show me what to do.”


End file.
